


Once Upon A Dream

by kleos_aphthit0n



Series: The Price of Magic [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutually Dubious Consent, Mystery, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Torture, Romance, sex to cope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 182,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleos_aphthit0n/pseuds/kleos_aphthit0n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p><p>When Billy became Adam and the world forgot, he fled to the garden city of Madripoor, to a life free of villains and, most importantly, heroes. But when the last Avenger finally falls, his world shatters as his old life catches up in a deluge. With nothing but his wit and his failing magic to protect him, he soon finds himself in the center of a mutant uprising and a conspiracy of mages. Old friends return, new foes appear, and ancient sins are unearthed.</p><p>And it all begins with a dream... a golden field, where a boy made of memories still remembers his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adam

"Forgetting is a piercing wound, keen as the first loss."  _Lucas O'Connor_

 

* * *

 

The man who entered the café looked much younger than Adam had expected and was cunningly disguised besides. It would have been easy to mistake him for a drifter or a pirate, both easily overlooked in Lowtown if you didn’t know how to look. Sweat-stained shirt, ratty coat, dusty cargos—he even got the _smell_ right: just the proper mix of sweat, piss, and alcohol. It was the sort of bum that the privileged eye liked to pretend not to see. You wouldn’t think him dangerous but you’d feel it, just an uncanny itch by the margins of your skin or a terrible auguring behind your neck. An almost-sound telling you to get up and run.

The man smiled at Adam and instead of putting him at ease, it only made it worse. Terror and excitement settled in his stomach, tying it in knots, as the man’s somber gray eyes found his across the room.

“Last time I met a man for coffee, I drove steel pipes in his mouth,” the man said casually, casting suspicious glances about. He dragged a chair across Adam and offered him a larger, warmer smile, though the way his lips stretched thinly made it look like they were about to tear at the sides. A few tables away, a fat Saudi man gave them a curious look before turning back to his newspaper. 

“Must have been some terrible java,” Adam said unimpressed, rising from his seat to offer his hand. “Hello, Jacob. It's nice to finally meet you.”

Impossibly, the man's grin grew wider as he grabbed Adam’s hand, giving it a single hearty tug with a bony hand of his own. “I'm tired, as always. So many people asking for things, as if I don’t have my own affairs to settle. I’ve people to hunt down too you know? Vengeances to exact...” Jacob plopped heavily in his chair. He leaned back and stared at Adam through sunken eyes. Outside, the harsh afternoon sun bore down on Madripoor, carving deep shadows in his bald profile and making him look very much like a living skull. “And the girl? She's doing well?”

“Yeah. Tougher than she looks,” Adam replied.

“Good." Jacob drummed his fingers on the table. "That’s good.”

Adam waited but the other man was staring at him and didn't seem inclined to add anything more. “So. Vengeances to exact and affairs to take care of… That's why you’re doing the drop off in person this time?”

“I can’t leave without seeing you; it’s bad form to never meet a client in person, don't you think?"

"Sure. Let's go with that."

"I'm a traditionalist like that. And I thought you’d want to hear personally from me that the Wolverine is truly dead. Once and for all. Saw the remains myself.”

Adam grew cold at the mention of the name. “Good,” he said with a hard edge to his voice. “How?”

Jacob waved an impatient hand. “Details. Partial atomization, I believe. Disruption of weak nuclear forces in genomic atoms. I won't bore you. Long story short: you can’t regenerate if there’s no healing factor.”

“You're _sure_ he's dead?”

“Yes, my dear Adam. He’s gone. He won’t trouble you anymore."

Adam closed his eyes and released a shaky breath, one that he didn't know he had been holding for years. He was a powerful sorcerer but the Wolverine had slipped through the crevices of his spell. This, of course, only reinforced the mutant’s conviction that Adam was too dangerous to live. The enchantment held fast, fortunately, and the Wolverine couldn't convince the Avengers of what Adam had done. Still, he had made it his personal mission to hunt Adam and put him down.

“And with that, the Age of Heroes ends,” Jacob said, once the silence had strained too much.

Adam took another deep breath and brought himself out of his reveries. “There are other Avengers.”

“But none of the old ones.” Jacob’s mouth twitched. “These ones are young and green.”

“Still Avengers and still dangerous.”

Jacob hummed in agreement. “I suppose. I wouldn’t grow careless. But with Logan gone, I feel safer already.”

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They weren’t all bad. They saved a lot of lives too.”

“A lot of lives? Only if they weren’t mutant!” A look of rage flitted over Jacob’s face, so sudden that its intensity and abruptness startled Adam. Something changed in his eyes, making them sharper and darker, and he stared so unflinchingly for such a long moment that Adam felt cowed and had to look away. When Jacob spoke again, his voice was quiet. “These Avengers were no hero to our people, Adam Thorne. You, of all people, should know that. They only got mixed up with mutants when they were fighting the rotten ones. The ones who dared think we deserved safety and dignity and had the foolishness to fight for those ideals. The ones who forgot that their place was beneath the boot of humanity. Where were these heroes when our innocents needed help? Mutants burned by the thousands. And even now, disappearing all over the place. Tortured. Killed. Children torn away from their families, vivisected in camps. Which Avenger bothered to lift a heroic finger?”

In the absence of an answer, the unspoken accusation simmered in the silence that followed. Adam had thought himself a hero once too, so where was he then? Where was he now? 

Eventually, he turned his eyes back to Jacob and cleared his throat. “Um... do you have to go?”

“Afraid so, my friend.” The other man leaned back and relaxed visibly. “It has been a good seven years but I’m afraid this is the end to our little arrangement.”

Seven years? Has it been so long? Has it really been seven years since Jacob had drifted into Adam’s orbit, carried by fate into the mess that had once been his life in a manner that was almost _too_ fortuitous? Seven years? Where had his life gone?

"I think I might actually miss you," Adam said, and was surprised to find that he actually meant it.

The man was good for information, if a little unreachable at times, and asked few questions of his own. Adam was loath to admit it but he’d miss Jacob, who was a perfect stranger really but was almost a friend, though he suspected that this sudden burst of affection had less to do with lost propinquity than with the fact that this separation was rather symbolic of a more comprehensive loss. Jacob, after all, was the last person who knew Adam from his old life—well, in some flexible approximation of _knowing_ anyway—or that Adam even had another life before the one he had cobbled up for himself after Stark had decided he was too dangerous to be free.

“Can’t you send someone else?”

“If it were any other task, maybe… But this I have to do on my own.”

“Where are you going?”

“Safer for you not to know." 

“Tell me anyway.”

"Well..." Jacob paused and frowned at him, as though measuring him up to decide his worth. Then, after a long moment of intense scrutiny, he cocked his head to one side and yawned.

Adam felt a dormant power stir inside Jacob and propagate through the air, like a pebble dropped on the quiet surface of a pond, creating ripples. But it was a small pulse, really, nothing overtly powerful—a surgical strike to take out any eavesdropping device for a couple of blocks.

“I leave for Genosha,” the older man finally said.

Adam startled at that and the word slipped out of his mouth thoughtlessly: “Genosha?”

It was an empty echo, like an abandoned cathedral, and its syllables on his own lips felt awful and hallowed. It conjured images in his mind: a sanctuary profaned, their people herded and collared, mass graves. A place built for hope, turned to ash.

Jacob shrugged. “I have business there.” His tone was nonchalant. "It's time for me to settle some affairs."

Adam narrowed his eyes. “All of a sudden? All this time, why now? Why the sudden need to attend to this business? What changed in the world? Is it because the old heroes are gone?”

“Not really.” Another shrug. “Like I’ve said… enemies to hunt, vengeances to exact. Nothing's changed in the world.”

Adam beamed. “Ha! So a change in _you_ , then,” he declared with a triumphant jab of his forefinger.

"What?"

Adam pushed his advantage.

“I knew it!” he concluded with a grin. “Really, Jacob? A woman? How cliché.”

“So you’re a telepath, are you?” Jacob rolled his eyes at him. A small smiled played on his lips. “You're lucky I am fond of you, Adam Thorne, because I have little patience for telepaths. They know too much and understand too little.”

“Well, I'm not a telepath. Just trying to make conversation,” Adam said.

"I know you're not. You're wrong, anyway," Jacob explained, still smiling. "It's a man, not a woman. A boy, really. A boy who likes to run."

"Huh." Adam stared at him, unfazed, and adamantly refused to play along. "Well, I won’t keep you from your hunting and your vengeances; you’ve got something for me?”

“You could go with me, you know.” Jacob sounded sympathetic, ignoring Adam's attempt to steer the conversation to less convoluted waters, somewhere less loaded with politicking and unspoken meanings. “I was actually going to ask before you told me you wanted out. Heard you were very helpful with the Red Skull incident in Singapore. Saw the footages myself—don’t worry, I had them erased as you’d asked. Point is I could use a man like you.”

Adam sighed. “No, thank you. No more running. Now that Wolverine is dead, I want a fresh start. And for real, this time. I’m tired, Jacob.”

“ _Tired,_ ” Jacob scoffed and leaned back, a look of disgust crumpling his face _._ “Youth these days… You haven’t lived long enough to be cynical, boy.”

Adam rolled his eyes but gave no reply. And in response, Jacob once again drummed his fingers on the table and regarded Adam thoughtfully. Outside, a heavy shadow fell on the island, as rain clouds gathered to blot out the sun. “ _Adam Thorne_ …” he said, amused now. “Must say you’re much younger than I imagined.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“What are you, mid-twenties? You could be my grandson.”

“Around there.”

“Ah, to be young again… So tell me, Adam, why’s a young man like you running from the Avengers? What have you done? I never did ask.”

Adam took a sip of coffee and held the man’s gaze, silent and determinedly unmoved.

“Or maybe I should be asking what it is you _can_ do?”

“Jacob.”

The man grinned, an ugly smile that stretched tight on his emaciated face. “Here, my friend,” he said as he slid a small metal box across the table. He tapped twice on the lid and the lock released with a loud hiss. “Passports. American, Swiss, Singaporean, and South African. For you and our friend. I hear you’ve taken a couple of strays—don’t be so surprised; it’s my business to know these things—but you have to make arrangements for the mutts yourselves. Bank accounts to your name and two others, Joshua Cain and Abel Smith; I thought I’d preserve the theme, _Adam_. The book you’d asked for, I couldn’t find, but I have the address of someone who might know something about it. And, as usual, a dossier on the households of the Upper West Side. There’s something else I took the liberty of adding. I know you didn’t ask but I think you’d find it interesting. I’ve enclosed the police report in there. Under the false bottom.”

“Must be very important,” Adam said absently as he rifled through the contents of the box. He took out the dossier first and searched for ‘Kaplan’. No deaths, no medical diagnoses, no reports filed. Good. “I’ll take a look at your mystery gift when I get around to it.”

“I’d look at it sooner than later. Might change your mind about this whole new leaf nonsense,” Jacob said with a lazy twist of his hand. “And that other business you asked me to look into… I’ve compiled everything I have. Don’t think that I forgot. But before I leave you with it, I have to ask... and surely I’m entitled to one question after all these years of friendship?”

Adam flipped through the rest of the dossier, feigning interest in the affairs of other Upper West Side families (he couldn't bring attention to the Kaplans so he had asked for a dossier on the entire neighborhood instead). Jacob must have taken this for approval and decided to start probing.

“You are an enigma, Mr. Thorne. Can’t find anything on you and I don’t know how you did that. There’s _always_ a cyber footprint, no matter how thorough you are. Else, someone _always_ talks. And yet my hackers and spies have got nothing on you. Even in Singapore with the Red Skull and the girl… A lot of people saw you, Adam, and yet no one seems to remember what it is you do—or how you look, even. I’m not gonna ask who you are; I already have my suspicions about that. I just want to know how you did it.”

“You’re asking me to show you my powers?”

Jacob shrugged.

Adam held Jacob’s gaze and slowly lifted a clawed hand, palm up, between their faces. He expected the other man to protest or to recoil reflexively but Jacob only leaned closer with an expectant smile on his lips and an excited glint in his dull eyes. Adam breathed out and sparks flew between his fingers, jumping from one digit to another with hypnotic rhythm. The air quickly took an ozone scent—sharp and pungent not unlike a swimming pool.

That little display triggered some yelps in the café and a couple of patrons promptly stood up and left. Adam watched them leave, impassively but closely, but he couldn't bring himself to care too much. This was lawless Lowtown of Madripoor and the Registration Act was not enforced here; people knew to mind their own business and to look away.

“Amazing,” Jacob whispered as his eyes glazed over in wonder. “You’d think in my line of work, I’d get used to these things but..."

Then, to Adam’s surprise, Jacob reached over and held his hands. He handled each finger delicately, inspecting and marvelling as though they were something precious. The sparks didn’t seem to hurt him; instead, they danced around his skin and passed harmlessly through his flesh. Adam’s fingers tingled and grew warm at the touch, as their powers met and merged at each point of contact. He withdrew his hand when it finally got too hot.

“Complementary powers,” Jacob explained with a pleased smile. “So electrokinesis. Doesn’t explain why no one remembers you, though.”

Adam huffed and almost laughed. “Magic,” he said, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

Jacob groaned and rolled his eyes, like the answer had somehow disappointed him. “That’s a cop-out but all right. Since it’s you, I’ll believe it.” Jacob reached in his coat and handed Adam a thin manila folder. “Here’s all I have.”

Adam unwound the string and reached inside. Nearly a decade of running and globetrotting to chase the flimsiest leads only to give it all up. That was two years ago. He couldn’t remember anymore why it had been so important though he knew it had once been something of an obsession. Admittedly, running for one’s life did tend to rearrange priorities, especially when you had an immortal psychopath on your tail, so that obsession quelled somewhat to a less imminent concern. Still, an old sentiment stirred in him. Fear and hope welled in his chest, as he reached in the folder and retrieved a single sheet of paper. The print barely covered half a page but there was a small passport-sized photograph tacked to the corner with a paperclip.

“Did you find her?”

“I tried.”

“That's like code for 'I failed', right?”

Jacob shot him a glare.

“Sorry,” Adam said quickly and Jacob accepted the apology with a terse nod.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much that you don’t already know.”

“That's it?" Adam frowned and turned the paper over and back. "All those leads I sent you and this is the best you’ve got?”

Jacob’s face was an impassive mask. “You mean all those _rumors_ from _two years_ ago? Here’s the thing… almost none of your _leads_ checked out. See if anyone so much as whispers about her, the whole web trembles; no one says her name without the entire world turning an ear to listen.” Jacob paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing. “But nothing. No one talks. She’s gone, Thorne, and nobody wants her found. Or remembered. It is my professional opinion that the Witch is dead.”

 _Ding-dong, the Witch is dead,_ he thought numbly.

Adam’s hands trembled as he quickly scanned the text. Jacob was right: there was barely anything that he hadn’t already known. Born in Wundagore… The Vision… Manhattan… And then last rumored sighting in Utopia, when the Phoenix descended. Nothing on the other side of the paper. The photograph caught under his thumb, old and yellowed and tattered at the edges, and the woman inside peered at him with sharp solemn eyes.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now,” he said as he slid the paper back in the folder. His lips curved into a soft smile. “I can’t keep looking back if I want to start over, can I?”

Jacob studied him, made a disgusted face, and clicked his tongue. He glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “I wish you luck in all future endeavors, Mr. Thorne," he said. "I’m leaving and I have already made arrangements to keep you safe to the best of my abilities. But once you leave Madripoor, you will be on your own. I hope you have sense enough to reach out should you need help." He pushed his chair back and made to stand. “Always a pleasure to hear your voice, my friend, and good to finally see your face. I am sure we will meet again.”

“Thank you, Jacob, for everything. I couldn't have—”

Jacob made a dismissive wave of his hand. “None of that, boy. I’m just an old man trying to do better." He paused and frowned, as though he'd caught a wayward thought. "One last thing, Mr. Thorne. Something else you might want to know.”

“What?"

“There are whispers of a man. Appearing all over the world in the past seven years, wielding the same power as the Witch.”

“Yeah?” Adam felt a sudden chill in the air and the hairs on his arms prickled and stood on end. 

Jacob stared him down and, with a disapproving twist to his lips, said “They’re calling you the Scarlet Heir.”

Adam sprung to his feet so he was eye to eye with the man. His fingers twisted to his sides, spell-ready, already contorting to the preliminary Forms of a concussive spell.

“Calm down, son. I’m not looking for trouble,” Jacob said as he put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. He looked around, as other patrons turned to watch the unfolding spectacle. Two mutants about to fight. Always a fun watch. Only a few had the sense to leave. "I just want you to know that while I’m much quicker than SHIELD and their Avengers, it won’t be much longer now before they catch up with you. Seriously. Did you think your little memory spell would hide you forever? You best be careful and turn quickly that new leaf of yours; they don’t take too kindly to those with more power than they.” 

Adam sneered and shook off the other man's hand. But before he could snap back a retort, Jacob shushed him with a frown. “Come now, my dear Adam; there's no need for theatrics. It will be a cold day in hell before harm finds the Witch’s child through me." 

An old sentiment gripped Adam then and he found himself grabbing and clutching the other man’s sleeve. “So you think it’s true? You think I— you think that I’m her—?”

Jacob gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Take care of yourself, son. And be safe; there aren’t many of us left.”

With a brusque nod, he turned and walked away.

Adam watched as the old man left the café, giving him one last nod as he stepped through the door. And just like that, the yearning for the Witch was gone again, forgotten almost. Outside, the deluge broke, heralded only by a sudden clap of thunder.

 

There was the usual crowd on the bus ride back to Hightown. Commuters jostled and elbowed their way through the packed decks and rushed for empty seats at every stop, bringing with them an eclectic smog of body odors. Adam was older now, more careful and more observant. He took note of the faces that walked past him and was careful to notice any who stared too long or were too quick to avert their eyes (there had almost been an incident in Nice, four years ago, that he was determined never to relive). He pushed his way to the back of the bus, where a window seat, as if by magic, had kept itself unoccupied. The old Indian woman looked up to him in surprise when he sat beside her, as though she had also failed to notice the unoccupied space to her side. He gave her a tight-lipped smile and stuffed his ears with his earbuds.

Outside, through rain-streaked windows, the sewer-drenched streets of Lowtown gave way to roadside houses and narrow alleyways, stretching far into the horizon where Madripoor hid her labyrinthine slums from the eyes of tourists and her wealthier denizens. Adam could just about make out the blur of towering structures in the distance, built in equal parts poverty and ingenuity by squatters who made houses out of galvanized steel roofs and plywood.

There were few things that repelled him as keenly as Lowtown, which appalled him not for its poverty or even its lawless desolation but for the absolute apathy of humanity that it embodied.  _Here I am_ , it seemed to say,  _Look at the wretchedness of your species. Look at what you make of the least of you._

Adamremembered seeing it for the first time— _smelling_ it for the first time—four years ago, just a month after Tony Stark’s assassination and that incident with Mother: a kidnapping of a Hightown girl by her chauffeur, who had thought he'd extract a fortune from her parents to pay off some debts. In the end, the whole debacle had lasted four hours, resolving satisfactorily without any exchange of money; a Hightown vigilante had rescued the girl, unscathed, and left the chauffeur maimed and crippled from the waist down. Jacob would tell Adam the next day that three years before that, the chauffeur's boy, in a fit of desperation and a youthful taste for adventure, had signed on with an agency to work construction in Saudi Arabia, only to have his passport impounded by the agency after arriving in the dessert city and to be summarily informed that he had to first pay off thousands of dollars in 'agency administrative and processing fees' before he could take home any pay—less lodging and food in the dingy and overstuffed workers' dormitories, of course; three years later, the boy was still toiling under the dessert sun and was still in debt. Once Jacob had finished telling the story, Adam hung up, teleported to Dubai, and brought the boy home to Lowtown.

Adam hung his cape for good that day. 

And now, sitting in that overcrowded bus ambling its way back to Hightown, Lowtown made him think of what Jacob had said earlier. Why were there no superheroes for those who needed the most saving? He had once thought it was simple: criminals were bad, victims were innocent, but in the end, reality was so complex. How could Captain America and Ironman and the rest of the shining Avengers call themselves _heroes_ when this place, this wretched hopeless place, existed on the very same world that they have sworn to protect and save? 

The world was doomed, he was sure, doomed in a way that no superhero could save… And he thought briefly that it was broken in a way that only a supervillain could fix. 

In the rush hour traffic, the ride out of Lowtown would be an hour long so Adam lifted his eyes away from the pitiful sight and looked instead toward the darkening skies, where stars had begun to emerge behind a thick curtain of rain and cloud. He withdrew himself from the mires of memory and, with a stiff twitch of his fingers, extended a portion of his magic, just a tendril, a very weak kinetic spell, to sweep away a bit of cloud so he could see the stars. No use dwelling on things that he couldn’t fix. Instead, he let his thoughts drift away from the miserable planet, carry him up the sky, across the vacuum, and onwards on the eddies of space—to the wild flare of stars, where galaxies spun like iridescent dust and moons and planets hurtled past him at impossible speeds, where quasars pulsed intermittently through endless space like a beacon beckoning home. He thought too of old friends, whose names he couldn't always remember. Four years since Mother, since they last saw him. They hadn’t missed him—well, they couldn’t since they had no idea he existed in the first place—and they would probably never see him again. Too much risk to the spell for that. Or maybe he didn’t have to keep the spell up. Maybe he could finally break it and come out of hiding. Maybe he could return to his old life, become an Avenger again, even, and finally save the world in the way it most needed saving. Now that the last of the old Avengers had fallen… maybe—

The bus jerked violently as it drove over a pothole and Adam almost lost his grip on the metal box. He caught it with a yelp, just as it flew out of his hands, and he held it closer to his chest. One more day and he’d be starting a new life with Ruixian. What was he thinking about just now? He forgot now. He turned back to the sky and blinked. He made another Form with his hand and the clouds parted further to a river of starlight.

 

It took an hour before the intertown made it to the walled garden city of Hightown and then another half-hour to Adam’s stop. It wasn’t raining on this side of town and it was a comfortably cool evening, so he decided he'd walk home instead of transiting to a city bus for the three-block distance. It was dark now, especially under Vineyard Road's canopy of trees, and the streetlights were just turning on, dousing the tree-lined sidewalks with harsh, silvery light. Well-dressed men and women milled around and poured into cafés and restaurants, talking, laughing, and flirting. Adam put away his earphones and listened to the city.

The first sound that greeted him was the nightly cacophony of nocturnal mynah, shrieking amidst the leaves and taking flight to destinations unknown. The birds tended to wake in the early evening, just at the beginning of rush hour traffic—though Adam suspected that the relatively recent urbanization of Madripoor had messed up the circadian rhythm of local fauna. Though still slowed down with traffic, buses and cars moved more quickly here than on the intertown highway and tunnels and quite incongruent to the typically stoic and polite nature of the Madripoori, the night rang out with the insistent blaring of car horns and the intermittent revving of impatient cars. Adam watched the vehicles creep along the asphalt of Vineyard Road, paying particular attention to a gold-plated Ferrari crawling between two citicab taxis.

Two blocks down was the part that made Vineyard Road famous (Asia's _Champs Elysées_ , it was sometimes called): rows of towering shopping malls rising on either side of the street like modern towers of babel scraping the soft belly of the clouds. The crowd was denser here and more fashionable too; the women sported Louis Vuitton bags and Hermès silks (which was an impractical sartorial choice in muggy Madripoor) and other trappings of the  _nouveaux riches_. The sidewalk, which clicked and asng under the crowd’s Louboutins and custom-made Italian shoes, was as wide as the road and made of polished granite, lined with statues of animals and plants caught in various states of activity and repose. Dull lamps were installed deep into the pavement and fairy lights were woven amongst the foliage, giving the impression of constellations in the canopy. It was undoubtedly a pretty sight but truth be told, this was Adam’s least favorite part of the Road—of the entirety of Hightown, even. Often it was too crowded and he felt nauseated by the assortment of colognes and perfumes that mingled abominably into a vicious assault to the nose. And, most unforgivably, it reminded him too much of Manhattan, which made him think too much of all that he had lost.

Adam held the box close to his chest and hurried in a brisk walk, taking in as little air as possible. At the end of Vineyard Road, he took a sharp right turn into Vineyard Close, a long narrow strip of a street between two seedy hotels, which, at the far end, gave way to a crossing to Melaka subdivision.

Once inside the gated commune, Adam released a deep sigh and finally felt at home. Just past the gates, the small road sloped gently up, lined on either side by market stalls, which were now in the midst of closing down. The crowd here was less ostentatious but perhaps more distinct and authentic. Walking up the street, he took in the scent of oils and curries and spices and saw under the stalls’ awnings unfamiliar meats hanging by hooks and piles of colored powders of uses that could be culinary, medical, or even mystical. Knots of people walked past him, chattering in tongues he could now easily recognize as Thai or Vietnamese or Filipino or Malay. When he finally turned into Melaka Lane, there was already a line in front of the Filipino food truck famous for its balut, which lovers enjoyed in the adjacent park.

Adam fished his phone out of his pocket to check the time—6:38pm—and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the messages:

- _Dinner at Cha Cha Cha?_

_-Halloooo, where are you?_

_-Have you met your creepy sugar daddy, yet?_

_-Are you alive? Pls don’t make me come down to Lowtown if you’re not dead. :(_

Six missed calls. Crap. Adam typed out a message and hit send:

_-Sugar daddy? Really? Gross. On my way back. Will just see you at home. Feel like mee goreng, anyway._

Just beside the park was Le Jardin, a condominium complex that had been Adam’s home for the past three years. It was a squat building on the lower end of Hightown real estate but it was within Adam’s budget and, more importantly, within walking distance to Ruixian’s own apartment. It overlooked the park too, which made a pretty view in the early mornings, and in the spring months (though Madripoor had no true spring—or any other season besides summer for that matter) when fierce gusts battered the island, he could smell the flowers and watch the yellow and white petals ride the updraft outside his window.

 _My last night_ , Adam thought to himself.

On impulse, he turned away from Le Jardin and took a right turn into Melaka Rise, which bordered the rectangular park on the southeastern side. Here was the stretch of family-owned shops that he frequented regularly. Most of them had already closed for the day but the bakery at the corner was still open so he went inside, bought himself a fish floss bun, and left Mr. Khoo a handsome tip in his jar. The man shook his hand heartily and flashed him a toothy grin and Adam couldn’t help but blush a little at the show of affection. He explained that he was returning to Canada the next day, which elicited a shocked gasp form the old man, and that he was taking a stroll through the streets to see the neighborhood one last time. This was followed by a series of questions and handshaking and Adam left the shop with a box of cake in his hands, five baguettes under his arm and a business card in his breast pocket of Mr. Khoo’s sister-in-law, who lived in Toronto but spoke " _meh_ Quebecois".

The other shops were already closed for the day but he took time to peer through the dark windows and looked inside one last time. There was the doll shop, which was as creepy in the dark as one would expect, an antique store, another café, and a second-hand bookshop, which sat on the end of the street. People walked past him, arguing obnoxiously over which trendy restaurant to try or which film to catch, and he ignored them as they ignored him. Some faces were familiar and for those he stopped for a quick exchange of pleasantries and pastry.

When he finally reached the bookshop, he paused for a moment and turned to look back down the street all the way to where Mr. Khoo had ensconced himself on the steel bench in front of his bakery. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to conjure a sense of sentimentality now that the reality of his leaving was drawing close. After all, this neighborhood had been home for him for three years and he had made friends here. He ought to be sad or wistful or at least anxious for nostalgia but every attempt at memory just filled him with dread. He had been in hiding all this time—a fact, which he had never allowed himself forget for one second—and that seemed to taint every memory of the place. For all the safety it had provided all these years, the cozy neighborhood of Melaka would always be both sanctuary and exile.

Adam might have expected some melancholic ambivalence but the emotions in his chest were clear and unambiguous. The Wolverine was dead and he was finally free; now, he could truly begin anew. If there were to be any tears shed, they’d be tears of relief. _Dead! That fucking animal is finally dead!_ Adam smiled and took another deep breath, capturing for what might be the last time the heady scent of Dama de Noche that had just began to bloom, as it only did, in the night time. He opened his eyes and with renewed purpose, walked briskly down the street and finally turned into Le Jardin.

 _I'm_ _free_ , he thought giddily. _I'm finally free._

The courtyard was tiny and suffocating in the warm humid night. Between the unkempt and overgrown trellises were even tinier gazebos that could accommodate no more than a cozy couple and maybe their interloping infant. Adam, made irritable by the sweat that had started to trickle down his back, crossed the cobbled path and climbed the brick steps.

He was maneuvering his way to the access card in his pants through three pieces of baguette, half a cake, and his metal box of clandestine documents, when a familiar voice called out to him:

“Oh, hello there, Mr. Thorne," it said.

The elderly couple emerged from one of the gazebos and ambled over to him. For a pair of truly geriatric people, Dolly and Sutan were surprisingly sprightly. Adam tilted his head in geeeting and returned a polite wave.

The old man guided his wife up the steps and, without offering help or asking for permission, took the boxes off Adam’s hands.

“Thanks," Adam said. "Nice evening we have, no? Warm.”

“Too hot, I think!” Dolly answered for him. “I don't know how you could stand it; my white friends always complain to me!" Here, she frowned at Adam and shook her head, which made him grin. "So you’re leaving tomorrow, Mr. Thorne?”

“Afraid so, Dolly. I’ll miss this place. Lived here for three years, after all.”

The old woman scoffed and patted his arm. “This old place? Not much to offer. You’re better off anywhere else.”

“Then why do you stay here, doc?” Adam asked with another grin.

Dolly turned to her husband and pulled at his earlobe. “This old coot’s Madripoor through and through. Never even been off the island, could you believe it? Not even to Singapore or Malaysia!”

Adam couldn’t help but laugh as the old man's face darkened and he grumbled something Adam couldn't catch. “Anything for love, eh, Sutan?” he winked.

“Love... fear... who could tell these days?” Sutan said. “But that reminds me... your lady friend is upstairs.”

Adam stared at him blankly. "My lady frie—" With a lurch, he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his card. He tapped it against the reader and the heavy wooden doors unlocked with a click, swinging inside to reveal a narrow corridor lined with apartment doors with the elevator doors at the end.

“Ah, crap. Well, I have to go. It was so nice to see you both,” he said quickly and then, after a bit of thought,added, “I’ll write, when I can,” though he wasn't quite sure that he meant it.

“You take care now, young man.” Sutan handed him back the boxes and squeezed his shoulder. “Breakfast tomorrow, before you leave? I’m making waffles.”

"And this one makes the best waffles in the world," Dolly added.

“My flight’s at six so probably not," Adam said with an apologetic shrug. "But thanks. You take care too, both of you.”

"Goodbye, darling." Dolly kissed him on the cheek and with that, he was off into the building.

As the elevator descended, he turned back to his neighbors one more time and waved, baguette and everything. He was impatient to get back now and regretted that he hadn’t taken the city bus from Vineyard to Melaka and that he had taken a detour up Melaka Rise for a sentimentality that he didn't even feel. He tapped his foot impatiently on the elevator floor and nearly broke his key in the keyhole.

 

For Hightown Madripoor, his apartment was rather Spartan. He had the basic amenities—water, gas, electricity—sure, but aside from the kitchen, every room in the house was criminally underfurnished: the living room had a ratty old couch and a tv, which was a gift from Ruixian; the small dining room was just a small plastic table and a pair of folding chairs; and the bedroom comprised of a chair, a desk, and a single bed that he had never used. Amidst the dust and litter were islands of half-opened boxes in various stages of unpacking and low wooden tables where he kept his tools for the craft.

Years ago, in Nice, he had made the rookie mistake of fortifying his hideout too well, which only made it all the more visible to any mystic who happened to look in the direction of his rented bungalow. He had spent an entire week laying down the protective wards in a penrose tessellation, stitched together using a powerful ergodic algorithm, and nicely secured with a time-dependent numerical cypher that had to be carved in finger Forms in front of the second window to the left of the front door. It only took the Wolverine a month to track him down and he was lucky enough to receive Jacob's warning an hour before the Wolverine arrived and ransacked his place.

Now, he knew better than to rely on such gaudy equations for his protective spells (in fact, there were hardly any wards on his Madripoor apartment) and he designed instead a system of alarms and escape routes. On each wall in each room hung a tall wooden frame and beside each rested a large knapsack packed with rations, clothes, money, and some herbs. He had also taken pains to hide protective charm bags beneath the floorboards.  Minimalism, he had learned, was key, and it was what had kept him alive in the past three years in Madripoor.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Adam called out from the kitchen as he placed the small pot under the tap and filled it with water. He could hear the television from the living room, where Ruixian had installed herself, and the scuffle of dog feet inside his bedroom. When he didn’t hear an answer, he stepped through the doorframe and asked again. “Hey. Noodles. You want?”

“Don't want. Thanks,” the girl answered, without turning away from the Taiwanese drama playing on tv. He'd found her there when he'd arrived and she hadn't budged since.

“All right, suit yourself. Not my fault if you get hungry at the airport." He turned away and stepped back in the kitchen. "Have you packed?"

“Just a small carry-on suitcase.”

“All right, then.” Adam would have preferred a backpack but he didn’t nag. “And you’ve made arrangements for the boys?”

“I got them crates. I don't think they’d like it but since you're insist on doing this old school, there's no other way.”

Adam hummed in agreement. “Everything okay?” he asked. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

There was a short pause and when Ruixian replied, her voice sounded a little forced. “A little but mostly just tired.”

“Okay. Tell me if you need anything.” Adam fished out two packets of _mee goreng_  from the overhead cabinet and dropped the noodles in the boiling water. A few minutes later, he heard someone padding over to the kitchen, the sound of every footfall amplified by one of his minor wards.

“Actually, I think I’ll have some after all,” Ruixian said as she stepped in the kitchen.

“Yeah? Well too bad.” Adam rolled his eyes and grabbed the scissors. “I’ve already—”

As he cut across the foil, the scissors slipped and sliced the tip of his forefinger. Suddenly alert, he stared at the drop of blood as it welled and beaded from the cut.

Ah, _fuck_.

Adam's body moved quickly and unerringly. He grabbed a kitchen knife from the magnetic strip above the stove and whirled on the spot. Without missing a beat, he threw the knife in the direction of the kitchen door, where Ruixian was standing. She caught the blade between her palms, just a hair’s width from the spot between her eyes, but still a little too late; the sharp tip had penetrated the mask, which made a soft crackling sound as it fell to the floor.

All the while, Adam had been quick on his feet. As soon as he had hurled the knife, he had leapt and slid across the kitchen island. He landed quietly on the other side and drove the heel of his right hand into the woman’s solar plexus, making sure to bear down with all his weight. The woman looked up at him, wide-eyed with surprise. She staggered backwards into the dining room and fell hard on the floor. Adam was immediately on his knees, straddling her chest and pinning down her arms under his shins.

“Where's my friend?” He demanded as he wrapped one hand around her throat and lifted the other in a fist. “Who do you work for?”

There was a loud crash to his left just as someone kicked the front door open. Another woman stepped in the room and drew a gun to his head. He wasn’t fast enough this time.

The bullet melted against his skin but the toxin buried itself into his forehead. Homeostatic spells kicked in immediately but he knew at once that they wouldn’t hold very long. With a yelp, he threw his arms over his face, as if shielding it from another bullet, and half the floor exploded in a burst of splinters. The woman under him shuddered and went still and the other one leapt back out into the hallway as fragments of wood flew upwards with fatal velocity.

Adam thrust a clawed hand to the front door and with a loud groan, the walls crumbled and obscured the door. With a wave of his other hand, the door to his room opened with an explosion of sparks and he called out, “Oscar! Dante! To me!” The mongrels came out running and threw themselves against Adam’s body. He carried them under his arms and then limped to the nearest portrait frame.

 _Fuck_ , he thought uselessly. Paralysis was already spreading to his limbs. With considerable effort, he bit his lower lip until blood was gushing down his chin. He sucked the blood in his mouth and swirled it in his saliva, conjuring in his mind a clear image of his destination. He spat on the area inside the frame and, with relief, saw the space turn into a shimmering ripple.

He had just about enough time to grab one of his survival bags before his legs gave in and he tumbled into the frame. His body plunged through something viscous and then he was falling out of another frame a dozen blocks away—this one nailed to the ceiling—and into another frame on the floor. Again, in another place—this one in a dusty attic—he emerged, only to be carried forward by inertia into another shimmering frame. Frame to frame, he tumbled and fell, alternating between air and the gel-like substance of whatever mystical space that existed between portals. Each frame splintered and fell apart as soon as he passed through, burning off his trail. Singapore-Kuala Lumpur-Tokyo-New Delhi-San Francisco-Grenoble… The dogs were quiet and stiff, as if their muscles had ceased working as well, and if they found the in-between space as unsettling as he did, they didn’t let it show. They must have gone through a dozen jumps, man locked in toxic paralysis and dogs in unwavering faith to their master, before they finally shot out in a room with no other frame.

There, Adam’s arms finally lost strength and the dogs scampered away, their sharp nails making clicking sounds on the floor. Behind him, he heard the sound of the wooden frame breaking into pieces.

Adam crumpled painfully to the ground and hit his head against the cement. Only then, in the safety of his cabin, did the pain finally make itself known. His head was throbbing and he was bleeding and the strain of suddenly using magic rattled his bones. Skin, muscle, bone, marrow, _soul_. Everything was on fire and the pain was just sharp enough to push him over the edge of unconsciousness. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to.

 _The dogs. The dogs will know to help,_ he thought deliriously through the red fog of misery.

“Oscar,” he called out weakly. And then more forcefully, “Dante!”

The clicking of their feet stopped and the dogs turned their heads to him. Adam smiled to himself and said, “Fetch me the—”

_Open sky. Warm. Cloudless. Sunless. Blue. And bright. An unmarred dome of light._

_A cool breeze blew and stalks of barley bent and swayed around his knees. The fields rippled into the far horizon like a sea of gold, waves rolling across the expanse and then disappearing behind the edge of the world._

_Where was he? What was he doing here?_

_He looked up, straining his neck as he twisted this way and that to gaze at the infinite sky. He turned his eyes to the horizon, circled  around slowly on the spot and saw that the golden sea stretched to all directions: an endless field under an endless sky and he in the center of the world._

_And then, in the space between heartbeats, the world shifted. A fierce gust blew, hard like a storm, that flattened the barley stalks to the ground. He squinted and threw his arms to cover his face. Quick as smoke, black clouds billowed up from the horizon and dimmed the sky, chilling the world._

_There was a sound behind him._

_A rustle that carried despite the harsh wind._

_A pair of feet landing softly._

_He waited._

_Then, a voice spoke an impossible word. It was said gently. Like it were a fragile thing that, at the moment of being spoken, would break. A word said like a prayer._

_“Billy,” the voice said once again, warm and achingly familiar._

_Billy turned and looked into the face of memory._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the [ cover art ](http://captainkittysparrow.tumblr.com/post/147717919676/reality-warper-inspiration-once-upon-a-dream) by the lovely [ captainkittysparrow](http://captainkittysparrow.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments, good or bad, are always welcome.
> 
> Talk to me on [ Tumblr ](http://kleos-aphthit0n.tumblr.com/)


	2. Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mage and a spirit on a broken mountain: an exercise in waiting and betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently, I super suck at keeping to a schedule. But this chapter is more than twice as long. I hope that makes up for it. And also, apparently I suck at writing action? lol i know it reads really weird but i'm learning ;)
> 
> Some graphic depiction of violence (and gore?) in some parts.

_Billy stared into the man’s eyes—such blue eyes that were so penetrating in their clarity. His wild hair, shimmering in a tangled mess like a golden flame, flickered carelessly in the wind. He had the surreal look of ideal masculine beauty about him, which felt almost contrived in that he seemed the idea of a man more than an actual man, the broadness and shape of an arbitrary demigod fit incongruously in a white t-shirt and tattered jeans. He lifted his hand and reached for Billy._

_Billy gaped at the stranger, rapt in morbid fascination and an unshakeable certainty that he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. And beyond that precipitous drop was a great abyss, within which lay the secret pieces of something vital and lost. There was a tightness in his chest and, stranger still, a deep yearning to touch the other man. He stood transfixed, knowing that if he looked away, he would crumble against the weight of that unremembered loss._

_Then, the alien finger touched his cheek and his thoughts shifted, crystallizing into the overriding prudence of self-preservation. With a sudden renewal of purpose, his face contorted in a vicious snarl; he shouted_ _against the entity: “Out!” And the wind rushed over him with deafening ferocity. Billy spoke again and his words rang high and clear above the storm:_

_“Out, invader, out! You are not welcome in my mind! I banish you!”_

_The whirlwind raged across the earth and stalks of barley tore away from the ground, filling the sky with their golden flight. The man stood paused, immobile and rooted to the ground like a statue, and watched Billy with unmoved intensity._

_Again, Billy shouted: “Get out!”_

_The ground shook once… twice… and then the earth tore itself asunder. The ground exploded in a rain of boulders and chunks of soil, hurtling upwards towards the black void that had become of the sky. The man’s hand fell away from Billy’s face, tracing a gentle line across his cheek._

_“Billy, stop. Please,” he said softly and, against all instinct and reason, Billy’s will wavered and the earth grew calm._

_He looked around him, at the fertile earth now turned to rocky desolation. Above him, inky clouds were in repose as though frozen in an impressionist sky._

_“You’re here… You’re actually here,” the man said. “What the fuck, Billy?”_

_Billy paused and turned back to the man. “What did you call me?”_

_“What?” The man's eyebrows knit themselves together. “What are you talking about?"_

_Billy narrowed his eyes and replied, carefully and emphatically, “Just who are you?”_

_The stranger took a step back. A faltering arm jerked again towards Billy and then fell uselessly to the side. He stood there, frozen again, like he wanted to touch, but could not._

_Billy seized the moment of hesitation and jabbed a finger in the intruder’s chest. He squinted and looked up at the man, glaring mightily into a pair of blue eyes. “Who are you?”_

_“I—” The man recoiled as if Billy had struck him. "Why would you... What are you saying?"_

_“How are you even here? No telepath or dreamwalker can breach my spells,” he said confidently, puffing out his chest as he found footing in the man’s confusion. He flexed his fingers to check his wards and found nothing breached._

_“I—I’m not a telepath,” the man said slowly. “Or a dreamwalker.”_

_“Then how are you here?” Billy withdrew his hand and clenched his fists at his sides. “The only person who can get inside my mind is me. I’ve made sure of that”_

_The man did not respond and for a long moment, there was only silence. Seconds passed, maybe minutes, and all he did was stare, as frozen and as lifeless as the rest of this imagined world. Then, he took a deep breath and schooled his face into a placid mask; he seemed to have collected himself and was watching Billy with soft but calculating eyes. There was a heaviness to that gaze, a sense of easy intimacy that felt presumptuous and unbearable. Billy felt his face grow hot and he averted his eyes to the ground._

_“I think…  I think I know why,” the man said. “I understand now.”_

Hair like barley and eyes like sky, _Billy thought absently._ And what kind of face is that? _Billy reflected on his own appearance—all nose and elbows and knees—and felt inadequate before the apparition._

Wait, what?

_He shook off the fugitive thought and chided himself._

_“Why are you here?” he asked self-consciously. The fire had gone out of his voice but he did not turn away from the other man._

_“I think... I’m supposed to be here.”_

_“How? The spells are holding.” Billy checked again as he spoke, and felt the familiar thrum of protective magic in the air. Everything was intact; the equations were holding. “Only I can be here.”_

_The man lifted his hand again, tentatively at first, and then more bravely, and finally he held it against Billy’s cheek. He cradled Billy’s face in his palm and traced slow circles on his cheekbone with a rough thumb. And then, to Billy’s surprise, he found himself closing his eyes and leaning into the touch._

_“Silly Billy,” the man said softly, gold and blue and bittersweet. “I am made of you.”_

“—sticks by the… fire… place…” Adam trailed off.

He was on the floor again, lying on his side and his hand still reaching for the far wall, as if no time had passed at all. The vast openness of sky had contracted into the cold isolation of his stone cabin. He looked around carefully and found the window, through which sunlight streamed in the room. A moth-eaten curtain hung limp on a wooden rod above the mildewed glass.

It had been night when he had left Madripoor so unless he had botched the portal and incurred a time cost—no, not possible; the portals were his escape plan and for that reason he had been very careful setting them up. That meant that some few hours had passed. And, as if to affirm his deductions, there was movement against his sides, a rhythmic contraction and expansion of two warm masses pressing gently against his torso.

“Fuck,” he said, out loud. The dogs stirred sleepily against him and Dante—the brown one—whined and licked his cheek. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

 _Was it a dream, then?_ The thought chilled him. Let it be the probing of an adept telepath or the fatal intrusion of a mental parasite. Let the telepath have his secrets—his _name_ , which even now slips from his mind like sand between his fingers. Let the parasite lay its eggs and reduce his mind to the ruins of insanity. The last time he had slept, he dreamed of Rebecca Kaplan and woke up to Mother’s gleaming knife of a smile leaning over him.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut and screamed in frustration, his voice making impotent echoes in the enclosure of his safe house. Dante and Oscar leapt away from him and then, seeing him in tears, snuggled fiercely against his chest. He hugged them close and buried his face in their unwashed fur. Whose it was specifically, he couldn’t tell, but he let himself cry unabated and they let him crush their bodies against his chest. He couldn’t think.He couldn’t breathe. He had been careful, _so careful_ , with all his spells and his potions and all the fucking incantations in half a dozen dead languages. And all it took was one surprise attack from… from…— _fuck_ , who even were those people?—and down he went. Who knew what meta-dimensional abomination he had loosed in the universe this time? One powerful enough to uncover a name that even he could no longer reach.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry. Just one minute. I just—one minute, all right? Let me have one fucking minute.”

Adam clung to them and they didn’t move or complain. He didn’t think about how well rested he felt or how for the first time in years, he didn’t feel even remotely sleepy. The only thing that hurt was the cut lip and the mild throbbing in his head—but that was a permanent thing now, ever since he had stopped sleeping. His muscles weren’t cramped and his bones didn’t ache with the tremors that always succeeded the sudden use of magic.

When his minute was up, he drew himself up on shaky arms and gave Dante and Oscar a scratch behind the ear. He made himself kneel on the stone floor. If anything had happened, it would find him soon enough and he would take care of it, as he always had. He was older now. Wiser. He’d manage.

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, as he straightened his back and slapped his cheeks twice with cupped hands. He looked at the dogs and tried a smile that he didn’t feel just yet.

“Okay,” he said again.

He lifted his eyes and stared at the open ceiling, where, carved haphazardly with slashing lines on the wooden beam, two words read: Mount Arayat.

 

Adam sank to his knees as he waved his hands amidst the rain of chicken feathers. Around him, the candles on the five points of the pentagram came to life and thin streams of fire flared high, bathing the room in a sudden burst of light. The flames blazed like wavering ribbons and licked the stone ceiling of the cabin.

“Okay, boys, I’ve got a good feeling about this,” he said to the two dogs in the corner. He glanced at them briefly and found them cowering with their faces against wall.

As the fires dwindled, Adam grabbed the rabbit from its cage and quickly slit its throat over the iron chalice. The blood pooled and filled the cup to the rim and then, just as it was about to overflow, it stilled. Adam held his breath and watched. Seconds passed and then minutes.

“Come on…”

Dead center, a single perfectly spherical drop rose slowly from the liquid and hovered an inch or so above the mirror-like surface. It floated for about a second and then fell, under the natural compulsion of gravity, back in the cup. It made one wave on the surface, rippling radially to the chalice’s lips without spilling and then coming back to the center. The drop reemerged from the center and fell back, making another silky wave that radiated to the rim and back.

Shadows formed beneath the surface and swirled lazily. They merged, separated, and merged again, forming solid shapes that were yet too hazy and too distorted to give meaning.

“Here we go. Here we go,” Adam said to himself as he lowered his face to the chalice. He watched the surface expectantly and sweat trickled down his temples as the wave grew more violent with each cycle.  “Come on. Hold it.”

He could just about see the spirit’s face, glaring at him from under the surface, when the candle flames faltered, sputtered, and then finally died.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Adam gazed about the pentagram frantically, eyes still unfocused and dilated.

The drop of blood rose one last time, quivering in the air before falling sloppily back in its puddle. The wave that formed was too large, too unstable. It hit the rim of the chalice and spilled over the sides, coating the unburnished silver. The image disintegrated and the spell broke.

Adam shuddered at the backlash of frustrated magic, that jarring sting in his skeleton that came with unspent power snapping back to its source. Like an overstretched rubber band suddenly released. Adam punched the ground, too exhausted to put any force behind it, and looked about him in exasperation. Carcasses of chickens and rabbits were scattered outside the perimeter of his pentagram and the stale air reeked of death and herbs.

He rolled over on his back and stared at the wooden beams beneath the thatch roof, panting. He tried to whistle and then, failing that, called out between ragged breaths. “Dante, Oscar.”

The dogs came to him, hesitantly at first, and there was no sound in the house but for the sharp pitter-patter of their nails and Adam’s own ragged breathing. Dante and Oscar plopped down to his left and rested their heads on his chest. Oscar, the white-spotted black one, looked up at him with doleful brown eyes.With a sigh, he ran a hand over his head and whispered, “I miss her too, buddy.”

 

Those days passed slowly for him. He only ate in the mornings—two eggs and half a chicken, always—but the dogs he made sure to feed thrice a day. What small charms he could risk lured rabbits and chickens—though fewer and fewer each day—and the cleverly engineered network of gutters supplied rainwater directly to the house. The cabin itself was an abandoned stone cottage in a small clearing tucked between the base of a cliff and an encroaching forest. It was tiny and humid and had a moldy smell, but it was remote and safe from human eyes. Not that it was remoteness or inaccessibility that repelled human attention. Mount Arayat was shrouded in mists of superstition, which was its armor against human curiosity, but to those who wielded the forces of magic, it was a font of power. The mountain was suffused with the cosmic web of ley lines, making it a nexus of mystical energy that an adept mage could harness. But such aggregation of magic also created a lot of mystic noise, which made the mountain impenetrable to the Sight of most mystics.

Adam had no illusions about the enormity of his task. Ruixian had been taken by what looked like an organized group, which probably meant they had access to other mystics, who would no doubt confound his attempts to find her. And even without the interference of another mystic, it had never been an easy feat to find someone with magic—well with _formal_ magic, anyway. But he hadn’t thought it would take a week. He had started off simple with locating spells, thinking that after finding Ruixian he could quickly carve a path and carry her off. When the basic spells didn’t work, he tried variations: scrying, projection, even castling. And when he had exhausted those on the sixth day, he finally resorted to summoning. He called on demons, spirits, fairies, even minor deities, but not a single one came to his aid.

Between breakfasts, he spent his time setting up circles and gathering the necessary paraphernalia for his spells. The safe house was well-stocked with the commodities of his craft and so there was little reason to leave the cabin except to relieve himself and to bathe in a nearby brook.

“We won’t stay here for long,” he told the dogs over breakfast on the ninth day. He could spare very little of the herbs so the chicken was rather bland but he had been half-starved for over a week now so he dug voraciously in his wooden bowl anyway. “I’ll get her back. I promise.”

The table was littered with bundles of herbs, bowls of crushed flowers, and the bled-out carcass of a hen that he had been feathering, so he had his breakfast on the floor with Dante and Oscar. They had lost some weight despite Adam’s diligence in feeding them. He studied his own bony arms, wondering how he looked like now after days of relentless spell-casting with meager food and water. He imagined himself gaunter now, gray and grimy and tattered-looking, with a patchy scruff that infuriated him. A stray image drifted through his thoughts: of a blond man with warm hands waiting under an open sky. Adam sighed at the ill-timed thought, a half-laugh, and shook his head, remembering that there were some who believed that magic was a threshold to insanity.

“Like mother like child, I suppose,” he muttered humorlessly.

The dogs observed him with their muzzles buried in their bowls. They were mongrels and not even particularly handsome-looking ones but he and Ruixan loved them dearly. When Oscar was finished, he scampered to Adam’s side, rolled over and lay on his back, belly-up.

“We’ll get her back, I promise,” Adam said again as he scratched the dog’s belly. “No matter what.”

 

He had known for the past two days now what had to be done—what cost must be paid so his pleas could reach the court of the Lady Maria Sinukuan. And what a dear price it must be too.

He had spent the day making preparations. He had redrawn the sigils and the pentagram with his own blood mixed in the salt, had washed the chalice and had scrubbed it—again with his own blood—until it shone under the light, and had even gathered rare varuna and fatal belladonna—all plucked in silvery moonlight, of course!—because he didn’t want to risk offense with preserved stock.

When he was ready, he sat himself cross-legged in the center of the circle and placed the chalice before him. To his left, piled in a copper plate, were stalks and blooms of varuna while an identical plate to his right held the deadly berries of belladonna. As he waited, he watched the shadows on the flat wall sway hypnotically like puppets on a screen. Finally, the sun aligned through the window and a ray of light fell on the chalice.

He snapped his fingers—pure magic this time; no shortcuts, just in case—and a small spark ignited in each of the plates. Their contents caught fire at once and twin streams of smoke drifted thinly in the air until the room was swimming with their heady scents. Adam took a deep breath and felt the awakening of magic in his bones. His chest drifted forward and his head fell back instinctively, as his body yearned to lift off the ground. Another breath and his eyes closed; his lips parted in ecstasy.

The magic built inside him, rising and roiling and boiling, held back in an increasingly unstable equilibrium by sheer power of will. He released a soft sigh and opened his eyes, which burned with the deep electric blue of his magic. He felt a trickle of chaos magic infecting the mix but he stoppered the leak easily enough.

At last, he turned to Dante and Oscar, who rested their heads on his thighs and watched him with patient and faithful eyes. He thought briefly of what he was about to do, hesitated, and then steeled himself. All sacrifice had been found wanting because they were no true sacrifice. But this… this was a precious loss that would cut him deep; the court of spirits _must_ pay heed.

He couldn’t have made them sleep or the price would have only been half-paid. He ran his hands over their heads and they flicked their tails against the floor. There was a high keening noise outside, as if the mountain itself was wailing.

Adam reached for the two knives just beyond the chalice and raised them overhead. Oscar and Dante stiffened against him when they saw the blades’ glint above them. He could see it in their eyes: pools of brown darting quickly from the executioner’s blades and to the hands that would betray them—hands that before had only fed and loved and protected. They made soft pitiful whines at him and when they realized that he wouldn't back down, they began struggling in earnest. By then it was too late; the ribbons of belladonna and varuna smoke held them down like thick heavy ropes so they couldn’t move an inch. Adam stifled a sob. God, he couldn’t even close his eyes. He had to make himself _watch._

The magic swirled and exploded from his core. It coursed through his arms, his hands, his fingertips, and finally gathered in the blades. His hands shook at the immense concentration of magic in his palms; it was like holding lightning.

And finally, the time came.

 _For Ruixian,_ he steeled himself.

He flipped the knives so the points were pointing down. He didn’t hesitate for a moment. With a cry he drove the knives down, aimed unfailingly at Dante and Oscar’s throats.

 

When she came, there was no sound. No crack of thunder nor whisper of rustling cloth. Not even a sudden displacement of air. It was as if she didn’t occupy space at all. Adam wouldn’t have known she was there if he hadn’t felt her hands around his wrists. Her skin was rough against his flesh and her grip was strong, strong enough that she easily held back his arms so that the knives did not break skin.

But they felt it. Dante and Oscar _knew._ It was in their eyes. In the heartbroken way they stared at him still straining to bury the knives in their throats, in the hurry with which they leapt away from him when the smoke dissipated, and in the way they slunk across the room.

“You came,” he said softly to the Lady of the Mountain.

“The Lord Supreme had called and so I came,” came the reply in a voice younger than he remembered.

Half-dazed, he didn’t quite hear her.

“I’ve been calling for days.”

“You didn’t pay the price, spoiled child,” she said sharply.

“I didn’t this time either,” he said hollowly.

“You did, my Lord Supreme.”

She held his chin gently and led his eyes to the far corner of the cabin, where Dante and Oscar had pressed themselves against the wall, as far away from Adam as possible. They made a soft whimpering sound when his eyes met theirs.

“Behold, little mage: the price.”

She was right. There was no jarring in his bones, no burn in his soul, no strain inside his brain—all symptoms of failed magic; the spell was cast and the price was paid.

“How cruel,” Adam muttered. He turned to the girl and took her in for the first time. She was young, with thick curling hair falling to her ankles, and dressed in a white flowing dress that spilled over her feet. Her brown lugubrious face was sharper than he remembered and her eyes had lost the softness to them.

“You are not Mariang Sinukuan,” he declared simply.

“My lord, my mother is dead,” she said mournfully. “I am Maria Heredera.”

Adam frowned. “Dead?” he asked dumbly. “How?”

“Killed!” she moaned pitifully. “Oh, my lord, my dear mother is killed!”

“By whom?” he asked incredulously. “Who could kill the great spirit of ancient Arayat?”

Her face contorted hideously, such that her beauty betrayed its odious inhumanity. “You did, you fool!” Maria Heredera screamed viciously, as she brought her face close to his. “You killed my mother, you selfish cowardly child!”

She stood fluidly with one graceful sweep of her robe and glided over to Dante and Oscar.

 

“I don’t understand how I could have possibly killed your mother,” he told her the next day. “I haven’t seen her in two years.”

They were out in the forest, in a shallow rocky stream that rose halfway up their knees. On either side of the stream were low banks of mud and fitted stones that might have constituted part of an irrigating system a long time ago. Maria Heredera was walking a few paces upstream, making no waves as she drifted through the waters, while Dante and Oscar padded along beside her, occasionally nuzzling against her leg and never sparing him a glance.

They worked their way up a meander where the riverbed gradually deepened until the water was up to their armpits. Maria Heredera stopped when the water touched her chin. The dogs, who had moved to follow along the banks, barked at her when minutes passed and she didn't move.

She turned to face Adam and said in a tragic voice, “I cannot go further, my Lord Supreme.”

“Then let’s go back to the cabin,” he suggested helpfully, adamantly ignoring the epithet and staunchly determined to remain innocent of its implications. “We can fix a spell to find my friend and then I’ll release you and you can go wherever you want to. Doesn’t that sound good?”

She seemed to consider that, and then sank languidly into the still waters without disturbing its smooth surface. She came up some seconds later beside Adam, again without any ripples, and said, “We need the full moon to find her and then the lambanas’ help to retrieve her.” Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the banks where the dogs were waiting. She climbed up the exposed tree roots easily, her dress already dry.

“Full moon? Are you serious?” he echoed impatiently. He closed his eyes in irritation and then added through gritted teeth, “ _That was three nights ago_.”

Maria looked over her shoulder and stared him in the eye. And then, to his surprise, she laughed; it sounded so child-like and innocent that it made his hackles rise. She indulged her amusement for a long minute and when she finally spoke, her voice was high and clear and dripping with mirthful malice, “Oh, you had known the price two days before that, you vile child. And now your friend suffers for your softness!” She laughed again.

“I need her _now_ ,” Adam said with an edge to his voice.

“I am bound to your petulant will, little mage,” she said gleefully. “Yet I cannot perform impossibilities. Even magic has its rules.” She paused and then added with narrowed eyes, “Well, _almost all_ kinds of magic, anyway.”

“She’ll die!”

Maria shrugged. “I am not powerful enough to find and retrieve her without the moon. I cannot bend the fact. Otherwise, dismiss me and save her with your own power.”

“I can’t. You’re my last resort.”

“Then learn patience, little mage.”

Adam clenched his hands into fists and sparks of electricity leapt across the water’s surface.

Dante and Oscar leapt in front of Maria, placing themselves between spirit and mage. They bared their teeth at their old master and growled, hackles raised and tails pressed flat to the ground.

Adam watched them and felt acutely the price that he had paid for the wretched spirit.

“My Lord Supreme…” Maria said in awe, reverting to innocent deference.

He took a deep breath and sighed. “I didn’t mean to; I lost control.” That was a lie. But he needed her magic and didn't want to alienate her; besides, malicious or not, she was a spirit still and was entitled to respect.

“That was no magic.” She cupped her hands and conjured some brown substance in her palms. She offered it to Dante and Oscar, who wouldn’t tear their eyes away from Adam until she made shushing sounds of comfort. She looked at Adam thoughtfully and tilted her head to one side. “How can this be? How can you be impure?”

“Are you spirit or demon? I’m tired of your spitefulness.”

Maria Heredera bowed her head low, which made an awkward sight with the dogs licking her hands. “Forgive me, my Lord Supreme, but I am a spirit bound to obey her nature. Your condition is an impossibility.”

“What condition?”

Maria lifted her eyes and looked at him as if he were stupid. “Why, your deviation, of course!”

“My devi—you mean my being a mutant? Is there bigotry among spirits?” he asked with a sneer and an exasperated shake of his head.

“The human language is flawed,” she said distastefully, throwing him a vile look as though she considered that his personal fault. “There are no words to describe your kind that could not be misconstrued as an insult. Everything wounds!”

Adam waded to the bank and began to scramble up the roots, imitating the same path he had seen Maria take. “Try harder than ‘impure’. Or ‘deviant’ for that matter? Why not just say ‘different’?”

“What is wrong with deviance? Or impurity for that matter?” Maria replied, offering her hand to him to help him up.

Adam sighed again, having even less patience for a spirit’s philosophying. “Just tell me the point to all this. Why is my _deviation_ impossible?”

They turned together and began their walk around the cliff. The path was worn and well-used, serried on one side by middling trees and on the other, a rocky drop to the river. Adam took her left while Oscar and Dante fell back to her right, away from him. They eyed him warily, ready to protect the spirit should he decide hurt her.

“What do you know of magic, child?” she asked as she stepped over a thick exposed root.

“More than you assume. Not to brag but I _am_ pretty good. Enchantments, mostly, but I excel at defensive and offensive magic too. As long as I can understand the equations and fundamental Forms, I can probably execute the spell.”

Her face remained blank and unimpressed. “But do you know where magic comes from? What it actually _is_? Why only some can wield it?”

Adam shrugged. “No."

"Your illiteracy astounds me, Lord Supreme."

"But what does this have to do with my being a mutant?" Adam said, letting the insult pass and steering the conversation back to safer waters. "Are you saying mutants shouldn't be able to use magic?”

Maria nodded. “Only the purest lines can use magic.”

“Really?”

“I cannot lie.”

“There are others like me, you know? Mystics who are also mutants.”

“That is impossible.”

Adam couldn't help but snort. “Shows what you know.”

“I cannot lie.”

“You might _think_ that what you’re saying is true but empirical evidence shows you're wrong.”

“Are you lecturing a being made of magic about magic?”

“But they’re there. Mutants with magic. So you’re obviously wrong.”

“Or perhaps you’re wrong about them. Perhaps they aren’t mutant at all. And neither are you.”

“Wait, what?” Adam stopped in his tracks and frowned. “What do you mean? We’re not Inhumans so what _else_ is there?”

“Something new," she mumbled. "Or perhaps something very old."

“What do you mean by _that_?” Adam asked, growing more agitated by the second. “Hey! Wait up! You can’t just say things like that and leave!”

But she was no longer talking that day.

 

They went out to the mountain again the next day, and then again every day for the rest of the week even though the heavy monsoon rains had come. They took a different route each time, trekking through the forest, along rivers, and across bogs until the mountain itself forced them home again; always they ended up at the edge of a cliff or before an unscalable wall or subtly and inexplicably rerouted by the mountain’s twisting paths such that they simply just ended right back at the cabin.  ~~~~

The spirit herself didn’t speak much, preferring to spend her time feeding or playing with Dante and Oscar, who by now have completely abandoned Adam’s friendship. She answered his questions when it suited her mood but after that enigmatic episode with mystics and mutants, she made no further effort to start conversation. And when she did talk, she was unpredictable. Unlike her mother, who could have easily passed off as human, Maria Heredera was very obviously something other. One could forgive her surreal beauty, the impossible sheen of her dress, or even the unsettling grace with which she carried herself. Despite all these she could be overlooked as an extreme outlier of humanity if not for her extreme fickleness of character and mood, her absolute inability to behave in any other way except as how she genuinely felt, and her uncanny manner of knowing the most efficient permutation of words and gestures to be as incisive and subtly hurtful as possible. In these, her otherness revealed itself unmistakably, an otherness which was quite contrary to the otherness of her mother, who, though passably human, had been unnervingly constant and level-headed.

On his side, Adam grew restless over the weeks. It was an exercise that strained his tolerance and kept him in perpetual terror. He had thought it would take a day to rescue Ruixian, only that had grown to a week and now to a further three. In his uselessness, he could only imagine what her abductors had already done to her. And after his own detention in the Cube, he had become adept at picturing the most horrific things that could happen to a mutant. Sometimes, on his treks with Maria on Mount Arayat, an image of Ruixian would pop up unbidden in his head: her small body tied down to a gurney, torso cleaved open and her ribs pulled apart to reveal the secret workings of her mutant body.

At night especially, when the world was dark and Maria would not talk to him, his head would fill with unwanted thoughts of her. He would see her captors probing and slicing and carving her, testing the limits of her own electrokinesis: how much pain her powers could convince her nerves to ignore; how long she could starve before her synapses trigger a physiological reconfiguration to adapt; or how far they could mutilate her until her powers failed to repair the flesh. The images festered and multiplied at night, like banshees or furies pressing around a beleaguered house. There were times when the thought of her dead came to him as a comfort.

Sometimes, when these ruminations grew too obtrusive, he would spend the night in deep meditation. Away from grim speculations and toward happy memories, which was, admittedly, a scarce resource for him. He thought of the Dama de Noche just outside his apartment, the white-washed brick façade of Le Jardin, or the narrow shop-lined street up Melaka Rise. He tried not to think of Ruixian (that only defeated the exercise) or of the dogs, who no longer felt any love for him. He thought instead of old friends—Kate, Noh-varr, and America most often, sometimes Cassie and Nate, but never Eli—and the Kaplans too—though only dimly for their memories, most of all, were wrapped in fogs of magic.

 _Kaplan, Kaplan, that’s my name,_ he’d repeat to himself so he won’t forget, though his first name had long been lost to him.

Sometimes, he would remember what it was to be a hero, to feel wind whipping through his hair and pulling on his tattered cape as he soared above the Manhattan skyline. Oh, to fly again. To feel the gravitational fields falter and lose their grip on his body. To be free from the world. He would zone in on those memories, feebler though they may be with each passing year, and smile a sad wistful smile.

Or he would fixate on an imagined memory: a kiss shared amidst the stars and beneath him the universe unfolding like the pages of a comic book.

 

“Where do you go?” Maria asked him one day.

They were inside a cave, where the air was salty and very wet, a few miles in from its mouth which they had discovered hidden behind a knotted screen of vines. It would have been pitch-black too if it weren’t for the bioluminescent algae clinging to the ceiling and creeping down the stalactite. The sickly cyan glow terrified Dante and Oscar, who crowded around Maria’s legs and whined the whole way through.

“Hmmm?” Adam hummed distractedly as he negotiated his way around a stalagmite. Unlike hers, his voice echoed in the cavernous space.

“At night. Sometimes, I sense that you’re not there, Lord Supreme.”

“Oh. Um, I just meditate. Sometimes, I retreat back in my mind.”

“Huh. The other night, you disappeared,” she added and then paused to consider the proper phrase. “ _Kind of._ ”

She had been with him for a little over three weeks now and had begun to absorb his speech and mannerisms: mostly contractions, fillers, and non-verbal sounds. Her command of language had also become more nuanced; now, she came off belligerent only when she felt so, which was still too often for the deference expected of a summoned spirit.

“I’m not sure I get what you mean,” Adam said. “But don’t worry about it”— _do spirits worry? For summoners who bind them against their will? Can they even feel worry at all?_ —“I just don’t want to think about my friend.”

They marched forward in silence for a stretch of time, Maria and the dogs in front, almost gliding around boulders and stalactites, and Adam some paces behind, carefully and clumsily navigating the mossy floor.

“Tell me of her,” Maria said as they came across a flat tract. There was the soft but unmistakable sound of running water ahead, not yet made visible by the weak light.

“Ruixian?”

“Who else, thick-skulled boy?”

Adam frowned at the awkward insult but decided ignored it. “What about her?”

“Why do you try to save her? Is she your…” she paused, frowning to find the word in her new lexicon. “… _girlfriend_?”

Adam snorted, loud enough that the sudden sound spooked the dogs. They barked at his laughter and then at the echoes of their own barks. He waited for them to calm down before replying.

“She’s a friend. That’s all.” He said it with an amused smile that he knew she could see though she faced away from him.

“Oh.”

There was another pause and it was after what felt like an hour that Maria spoke again.

“Do you have a lot of friends?” she asked as though she had spent the time reflecting on what he’d said.

“No,” he said and then reconsidered. “I mean I used to. But not anymore.”

“Why? Did they all die?” she asked with brutal nonchalance.

 “I suppose _I_ died,” he said, more to himself than to her. “In a way. Sorry, that sounds really corny.”

“I understand now, my Lord Supreme.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you killed my mother.”

“I didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter, blind child. Tell me more about the girl. How did you meet her?”

Adam sighed but he didn’t push. Spirits were such strange things, each with its unique sort of strangeness; he’d go mad if he tried to understand them. “Over two years ago, back in Singapore.”

“I remember those times, Lord Supreme. Many of your kind joined the spirits. Most of them children.”

“And she almost did too,” he said with a detached softness that surprised him. He jumped across the narrow stream and landed noisily, sending Dante and Oscar to another fit of barking. “God, she was just a student then. High school or junior college or something. At first they wanted to sterilize mutants and after that, they decided they were too dangerous. It’s for national security, you see? So they arrested all registered mutants and transferred them to an offshore ‘holding facility’ better equipped to detain them. But they were never supposed to reach that prison. There was supposed to be an accident. I was in Seoul, back then.”

“You saved her?”

Adam shook his head.

“A friend did. By the time I got to Singapore, Jacob had already taken care of the ships. I was just there to move the survivors to his safe houses.” He paused thoughtfully before adding, “She was still so young then, probably the youngest prisoner since the government had been neutering mutants and X-gene carriers for decades. Jacob saved about a thousand mutants that day, though all of them had already been sterilized. Ruixian didn’t want to go with the big scary bald man who sank three frigates and killed all the officers onboard. So he entrusted her to me.”

“And you’ve grown fond of her?”

“Not at first. She was shell-shocked for a while; every time her powers manifested, she would freeze and you won’t be able to talk to her for hours on end. So I had to baby this girl that I barely knew—God, I feel so selfish and terrible now, looking back to how I treated her in those days. I was very impatient. I even screamed at her sometimes.”

“But you say you are friends now.”

“Yeah… A couple of months after we moved to Madripoor, the Red Skull attacked and there were riots in Singapore. Mutants who managed to hide from the Registration Act were hunted down and beaten to death. And Ruixian… she begged—she actually begged me to let her go so she could help. I said no, of course. Told her it was too dangerous. She couldn’t even use her powers so how would she help? But she didn’t care; she was like this other person, suddenly. Like a switch was suddenly flipped inside her. She screamed and cursed and begged and stomped out the apartment. I didn't think she'd go through with it but a few hours later I heard that she was on a boat over. They arrested her as soon as she was on Singaporean soil, of course. Didn’t even put up a fight. How could she when she couldn’t even use her powers without becoming catatonic? So obviously, I had to rescue her. _Again_. I remember being so pissed.

“Only when I got there, I got shot. It was really bad too. I was bleeding out and I was pretty sure that that was it for me. I was going to die. And this Ruixian, with no hesitation, she… she placed her hands on me and healed me. Her whole body was shaking and I could see it in her eyes. She was already coiling into herself and retreating to wherever it is she goes whenever her powers manifested.

“She saved a lot of people that day. Just her. I was too weak even after she healed me. But she just kept going. It was madness! I casted a projection spell to keep track of her and I just watched. I watched her saving all these people even though it broke a piece of her every time she used her powers. You’re a spirit so you’d understand; even a mage of the lowest order can see these things when walking the astral plane. Ruixian just wasn’t there anymore. She was somewhere very deep and dark. But she just kept going. Must have been a week before she finally stopped. No food. No water. No sleep. Nothing. Didn’t even piss herself.

“And when it was all over, she was just gone, didn’t come back for days. It was different this time. She saved me and all those people and it broke something inside her for good. I couldn’t talk to her for weeks; I thought I might have had to commit her to some facility. In fact, I was already talking with Jacob about placing her in this hospital in Chamonix—I have a friend there, you see—and he was already making arrangements.

“But then suddenly, she was just back. Got up from her bed, took a shower, and then _complained_ that the noodles were overcooked. But she wasn't the same. Whoever came back was a different person. It was like she figured something out. She was happier, more put together. She even started using her powers. It was like she had built a cocoon around herself and she finally emerged after weeks of transformation. I never asked what happened to her and she never volunteered anything. I suspect it was her own power repairing the circuitry in her brain. Using her powers to that extent in Singapore must have triggered something. Though, to be honest, I like to think it’s more her than anything else. Just resilience of character, indomitability of the human spirit and all that, you know? But still... logically, I think it’s her power that put her back together. She still has bad days even now—I don’t think those would ever really go away. But most of the time, it was like being around a normal person. Sometimes, it even felt like she’s the one taking care of me.”

“Just one more week, my Lord Supreme. Just one more week,” the Lady of the Mountain said in response. “You two will meet again, soon.”

The ambiguity didn’t escape him but he knew that she didn’t mean to hurt him (or simply did not care not to either) so he decided to let it pass. ~~~~

“She was sixteen, when she saved you?” Maria said after some time.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“You were sixteen when you lost your name and became Adam Thorne.”

“Just a coincidence, I suppose.”

“Stupid boy. Such a thing is rare among beings of Fate, my Lord Supreme.”

They walked further in until the cave began to constrict, marking the imminent end of their journey. At some point, they scrambled up a short wall, only to run into a dead end. Without a disappointed wrinkle on her placid face, Maria turned around and started walking back.

“These names you call me,” Adam said carefully. “They’re so strange. How am I a being of Fate?”

“You are a wielder of Fate magic. Or _were_ , rather.”

“You mean chaos magic?”

“A human term but yes, the very same. ”

“I haven't used chaos magic since—”

“Since Adam Thorne?” Adam could hear the smile in her voice. “No matter how much you try to deny it, shameful child, it still resides inside you. You can’t refuse who you are, Lord Supreme.”

“I like to think that our circumstances don’t define us and that we have a choice in who we want to be,” Adam said resolutely. “And what about _Lord Supreme_? Why do you call your summoners that?”

“I’ve only been summoned this once,” Maria said. “And perhaps Heir Supreme would be more fitting, considering you have not taken the office of Sorcerer Supreme yet.”

Adam stopped dead in his tracks. “But Doctor Strange—”

“—holds the seat no more. It was under his watch that the pestilence that called itself Mother infected and profaned this realm.”

“But _I_ let Mother in!”

“An undeniable manifestation of your stupidity, for sure. But it was also you who destroyed it, Heir Supreme, and in so doing, you usurped Strange’s right and duty.”

“You've been playing me all this time, Maria Heredera,” he said. “These long walks we take, what are you really on about?”

The spirit turned to him with a smug smile, looking very pleased with her mischief. In the unearthly glow of algae, she seemed so much like the apparition that she was. “Silly boy,” she said again, only fondly this time with no real malice in her voice. Like a mother chiding her son. “No one remembers you here in this mortal plane but spirits do not forget, Adam Thorne. In your weakness and cowardice, you abandoned us. Spirits and magic-men alike, you abandoned us. Your name—your _true_ name, even now lost to us—drips with infamy. You are lucky I came at all.”

As she said this, she reached down and scratched behind the dogs’ ears, looking him in the eye meaningfully.

“I am not the Sorcerer Supreme. I’m not responsible for mystics or spirits or anyone! I can’t be. It’s too much weight for just one pair of shoulders,” he said, blinking back. “And you can’t put that on me!”

His words fell on deaf ears. Maria trained her eyes back on him but her gaze flitted past him.

"I put nothing on you."

They made their way out side-by-side, now that they knew the terrain. The dogs followed close behind them, barking at the occasional water drip or heavy footstep.

“Humans are selfish, aren’t they, Lord Supreme?” Maria said when they finally emerged from the cave.

The mountain had changed, he finally realized. There was no birdsong, no howling of nocturnal beasts, not even chirping of insects. The only sound came from Dante and Oscar chasing each other in a tight circle, happy to be finally out of the cave and back in the world of light and air.

“Yes, they are, Maria,” Adam said absently as he looked up at the black clouds blanketing the sky. He squinted against the dim light, trying to readjust his eyes to the dark afternoon; he turned his gaze on the tree line and looked for the clear path that they had taken. And then, almost like an afterthought, he added, “I should say ‘we’ since I’m also human and also incredibly selfish.”

With a hum and a shrug, Maria took on a bright yellow glow. She took Adam’s hand and led him to the forest.

“Though it could be argued that one has the right to some measure of selfishness,” he added with a challenging raise of his eyebrow.

“So long as no harm is done to others?”

“So long as no harm _through action_ is done to others.”

Maria turned to him and smirked. “Clever boy.” she said. “Wretched, selfish, clever boy.”

“Spirits are known to be pedantic,” Adam said with a smile and a shrug. “Harm through action and harm through inaction are different things. You shouldn’t do something that will hurt another person, obviously. But at the same time, no one should be able force you to do anything. Not give all your money away. Or even help others. Much less, give up your life. No one—no matter how powerless _or powerful_ —should be slave to another.” ~~~~

“Said the summoner to his bound spirit,” Maria said quietly and then, before he could respond, added, “Even when the cost of inaction is the life of another? Are noble heroes not held to a higher code?”

“I’m no hero.”

“By all rights of power and privilege, you are Sorcerer Supreme, selfish boy; all magic pays a price for the things that you do.”

“I’ve done nothing!” he protested.

“Pitiful, hateful, broken child. By doing nothing, you have undone everything,” Maria said angrily. When Adam looked at her eyes, they were wet. “How many magicians have you encountered in the past year? How many fairies have you seen on my mother’s mountain? Do you remember the lambanas? Don’t look away, my Lord Supreme! Look me in the eye, despicable boy, look me in the eye. Where are they now? Where are the lambanas? Have you seen any yet?”

“I have not,” he was forced to admit.

Maria turned away from him and stared ahead. “Your magic is fading, my Lord Supreme.”

“It is.”

“All magic is fading.”

“I think I’ve known for a while now. It shouldn’t have taken so much just to commune with a mountain spirit,” he said. “And that’s why we need the full moon and the lambanas for the spell.”

“Then you must also know that you are at the center of it.”

Adam laughed bitterly. “Hah! Of course, I am. Of course! It’s always my fault somehow; the universe seems to have given me monopoly on blame! But tell me how. How is this new crisis my fault?”

“Without a true Sorcerer Supreme, magic cannot enter this universe.”

“And so long as I do not accept the Supremacy, I do not ascend to become Sorcerer Supreme, yes?” Adam said viciously. “So that’s why I haven’t seen any mystics lately. No fairies. No lambanas.” He paused abruptly and then added gently as realization dawned on him, “And that’s why your mother died.”

“We are beings of pure magic, child. The most powerful spirits were the first to disappear. All the demons and the ones your people angels. Most of the fairies and lambanas are gone too,” Maria said with no hint of sadness. “My mother… she held on for so long, much longer than ancient spirits were entitled to. But in the end, she was too weak. One day, humans came from the north. They had machines. Then there was a fire…”

The rest of that story hung unspoken over them but Adam didn’t have to guess the rest of it.

There was a chill that marked a passing rain, which gave the air the smell of mud and wet leaves. They walked on a narrow curving path, between thick forestry and under an even more impenetrable covering of branches and leaves. The whole world had plunged into darkness and there was no sound except for Adam’s footsteps and the dogs’ breathing. Maria, glowing divinely not unlike some visitation of the Virgin Mary, was the only light in the corridor of darkness.

“You can’t ask this of me,” he said suddenly. “How could you expect me to be Sorcerer Supreme, when I can’t even be _me_? I can only be Adam Thorne.”

But as usual, Maria gave him no answer. They came out to a meadow upon a hill, where an explosion of stars peeked between the dissipating clouds. The wind nipped at Adam’s exposed neck and immediately, Maria began to radiate heat to comfort him.

She spoke again, as if there had been no interim in the conversation. And, like all spirits, her mind operated unpredictably, branching out and making tangents in the most arbitrary manners.

“We are the same, Lord Supreme,” she said. “You and I.”

“Yeah?”

“We are both cynics!”

“Are we now?”

“Why, yes! I am a realist, who sees the world for its ugliness.”

“Well, I don’t. I think there is also a lot of hope in this world. I think it has the capacity for beauty and kindness. Maybe not in everyone—definitely not in me—but it exists.”

“Despite all you’ve seen, you still say that humans are capable of beauty and kindness?”

“Yes.”

“Despite what they’ve done to the witches and the druids and the shamans and the albularyo, what they do now to mutants, and what they will do to the next outcast?”

Adam paused for a second and considered. “Yes, even then.”

“Even when the noblest of their kind—the heroes—have failed? Despite your own selfishness?”

“Yes, even then. No matter what, Maria, the answer is always yes. The way I see it, life’s most fundamental nature must be change. That is true down to the cellular level of every life form on the goddamned evolutionary tree. And where there is hope of change, there is hope for something better. So, yes! I believe that while this world is ugly, there is still hope. Human beings _could be_ good. And that makes us worth it.”

“You let your hoping do your thinking for you. Quite stupid for one of your position,” Maria said. “You are a true idiot, Lord Supreme.”

“I am an idealist.”

Maria laughed, soft and high like bells. “Those make the most bitter cynic,” she said.

They were almost at the cabin now. Dante and Oscar had run ahead and were barking excitedly with their front legs up against the front door. Maria glided forward to let them in and when she opened the door, the stale smell of herbs and mold wafted out. She turned to Adam and closed the door behind her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Would you make a deal with me?”

“That we should keep secret from the dogs?”

“They distract me, Lord Supreme.”

“Summoners implore spirits, not the other way around.”

“And so it has been since the first spirit summoned,” she said simply, as if reciting a line she had memorized from a book.

“Then you know you are breaking the rules.”

“There’s not much magic left in the rules to punish me.”

Adam studied the spirit with narrowed eyes. She was so beautiful in the dark, so ethereal, though it was never beauty that he sought in a spirit’s face—even in those that suggested a masculine form. But there was something to her face—female though it may be—that drew him in, that made him want to touch her and in turn be touched by her. Adam gazed into that beckoning face now and felt the urge to hold it between his palms. He hadn’t thought much of that urge before but now an understanding was dawning on him. Her fickleness and her brutal honesty. All those walks… he didn’t have to indulge her. Everything fell in place and he finally realized the sad truth behind Maria Heredera.

“Oh, Maria…”

And for the first time, the spirit looked cowed. Maria Heredera crossed her arms over her chest, as if to cover herself in shame. She bent forward, her long hair falling over and obscuring her face. She seemed to be shrinking into herself like she meant to make her self smaller and less visible.

“I’m so sorry, Maria,” Adam said. “But I can’t bring her back.”

“I know that.” Maria peered at him through her hair. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

She stayed in that position for a while before drawing herself up, straightening her back and lifting her chin to recover her dignity. She looked some inches taller than she usually did.

“A deal, my Lord Supreme.”

Adam considered the spirit before him and said with as much courtesy he could muster, “You have nothing to offer me.”

“I offer you a secret.”

“A secret of spirits?”

Maria shook her head. “A secret of humanity.”

“Is it important?”

“I am no trickster spirit, child.”

Adam crossed his arms and closed his eyes in consternation. “And in return for this secret?”

“Consider the ascension to Supremacy.”

“No,” Adam said immediately and with a hardness that surprised them both.

“Just promise me, Lord Supreme, that you’ll think it over, seriously and fairly. For the survival of my people and yours.”

Adam opened his eyes and bit his lip. “Fine,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “My Lord Supreme, thank you.” Her eyes sparkled with brimming tears.

“So the secret in exchange for my promise?”

Maria’s face turned grave. “My Lord Supreme,” she began carefully. “Listen close and listen well:

“There is something terribly wrong. An infection spreads secretly among your kind, which, left uncontrolled, will end with your extinction.”

“An infection?” Adam frowned. “Among mutants? Hardly new.”

“Not so, silly child.” Maria shook her head emphatically. “Mutants… mystics… all humans... even the ones you call _I_ _n_ humans. _Homo sapiens_ will perish.”

“ _All_ of humanity?” Adam raised an eyebrow. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“I cannot lie.”

“And when you said ‘extinction’ you meant—”

“—of the human race.”

Adam’s brows furrowed in thought. “How long?”

“Two years.”

“ _T-two years?!_ ” Adam said with wide-eyed surprise. “Is it a virus? Bacteria?  Mode of infection?”

Maria shook her head again. “No spirit of Earth has seen such a thing before, my Lord Supreme. We know only that a blight spreads among your kind.”

“So you know close nothing,” Adam stated with a touch of asperity. “What would I do with information so nebulous?”

“As nebulous as the promise I have extracted from you, you greedy wretch.”

Adam clicked his tongue and turned away with a roll of his eyes. “Fair enough.”

They remained outside the cabin for a long while, sitting side by side on the wet grass under a sky painted with stardust and scurrying clouds. It was an easy silence, as though nothing of grave importance had just passed between them. They watched a half-moon emerge behind the mountain and climb the sky without a single word between them.

Adam spent the hours wrapped in a swirl of thoughts: of Ruixian mostly and the fact that in a week there might not be much of her left to find; of becoming Sorcerer Supreme and the choice between duty and freedom that confronted him again; and of the affliction surreptitiously decimating humanity. He thought of the life he had been dreaming of, a life free of magic and duty. A life free of hurting others with a power that he couldn’t control. There was an infection inside him too, he decided idly. Chaos magic—or _Fate_ magic, as the spirits called it. Primordial, powerful, _unfettered_ magic that had brought nothing but destruction and madness through the tragic person of the Witch.

They sat together, man and spirit, until the rosy fingers of dawn unfurled across the sky. And as the soft light spilled on his face, Adam’s thoughts, for the first time in days, turned to the _Ars Notoria_.

 

On the day of the full moon, they summoned the lambanas.

They came from the forest with no ceremony but for the soft rustling of leaves that heralded their arrival. The two sauntered to the cabin where Adam and Maria waited and presented themselves to the Heir Supreme with a deep bow.

“Our Lord Supreme,” they said in high chirping voices. “We are the lambanas of Mother Arayat.”

“I welcome you, honorable lambanas,” Adam said in a rehearsed tone. “I am the mage Adam Thorne and this is my spirit-companion Maria Heredera.”

The sprites stood up and Adam saw that they were bare-breasted. They had a thin piece of red cloth wrapped around their waists some inches above their sex, which was bushy and exposed, and had leaves woven in their thick black hair, which framed their soft-looking faces. Their eyes were puddles of brown, wide and deep.

“We know of you,” the first one said.

“And we know _her,_ ” the second one added with a sideways glance to Maria.

They spoke with the characteristic shrill trill of the fairies, a falsetto high and sweet and dripping with hidden venom.

“I thank you for heeding my call, sisters dear,” Maria said.

“Do not thank us, lady wretch; we had no choice,” the first one said without looking at Maria. She studied Adam intently, a frown etched deep in her face. “You are Lady of the Mountain, so we have come as our Laws dictate.”

“But do not presume to think that we would do more than what is needed to respect your birthright,” the second one said with such a sweet smile. “The trees of Arayat will not shed a single rotten leaf for your cause.”

“Where we can, we’ll do nothing,” the two said together.

“Then let _me_ beseech you, hallowed lambanas,” Adam said to them. “I beg your powers to retrieve a friend.”

Quite suddenly, the two advanced on him, taking turns to push his shoulders until he was pressed against the cabin wall. Inside, the dogs barked at the dull thud.

“How dare you,” the first one snarled, her eyes flashing red.  “Ask favors of us?”

“Save a life for you?” the second one added. “When our mother and so many of our sisters have perished for your idleness?”

The two leaned close to him, so that their faces were only an inch from his and he could feel the warmth of their breath.

Their eyes glowed a deep electric green. “No,” they said together.

The lambanas took a step back and bowed. They held the position, clearly waiting for something to happen. Adam let them endure the posture of obeissance for a while before turning to Maria with a brusque nod.

“Sisters, I release you,” Maria said.

A strong wind gathered around them, kicking up dust clouds. As one, the lambanas stood straight and spread their arms. The wind buoyed and carried them swiftly into the forest as if they weighed no more than fallen leaves, their tinkling laughter trailing behind them. Adam couldn't be sure but he thought they were giving him the middle finger as they flew.

“You’re not surprised, are you, my Lord Supreme?” Maria asked as the gust vanished abruptly.

“Not really,” Adam said. “I mean what did you expect? We did kill their mother.”

Maria answered the accusation with silence.

“What now?” he asked instead.

“I’m not powerful enough to bring your friend here.”

“Then, send me to her instead,” Adam suggested readily, having expected this turn of events.

“Look at you, my little mage,” Maria said with an amused smile. “Still a hero, after all.”

 

When the night of the full moon finally came, it was almost anticlimactic.

They waited for the moon to reach its zenith, as Maria stood in the center of a glade and Adam waited patiently in front of her, ready to leave any moment. He had put on a fresh pair of trousers and a thick long-sleeved shirt under his scarlet hooded robe. He carried a small backpack of herbs, candles, and American dollars. Just the bare necessities.

He had said his farewells, which, though heartfelt, had not overwhelmed Maria with sadness. He had tried to say goodbye to Dante and Oscar too but they would not let him near them, so he settled with saying it out loud from a distance, as they played among themselves and paid him no attention. He wanted to apologize too but couldn’t bring himself to it. The price had been paid and must remain so.

The moon reached its peak and Maria looked up and stared into its silver glare. Her eyes turned a deep red, spilling over her skin like tears.

 _Here I come, Ray,_ Adam thought to himself, adjusting the clasp of his robe and letting it flare out behind him as he flexed his magic with a quick kinetic spell. _I’m coming for you. Alive or dead, you’re coming home._

Adam rolled his shoulders and stretched his fingers. Electricity danced across his skin and magic poured into his marrow. Once more, he felt the strings wrapped around his left wrist, making sure he had done the knots as Maria had taught him.

“I have found her,” Maria declared. “A mage had enshrouded her.”

“Powerful?”

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “But not as powerful as you, my Lord Supreme.”

She turned to him and stared with her glowing, bleeding eyes.

“She is alive but only barely. Oh, my Lord Supreme, the things they’ve done to her body. Her legs... Her poor, poor legs.”

Adam released a shaky breath, which turned to a laugh halfway through. He shook his head and then fortified himself for the rescue. “Send me now, Lady of Arayat. Fulfil your duty to your lord summoner.”

“This is goodbye, my Lord Supreme.” Maria placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Do not forget your promise.”

Adam nodded in acknowledgement. “Goodbye, Maria.”

There was the sensation of being turned inside out, followed by a dream-like impression of falling. Darkness rose around him as the world fell away under his feet. He was falling down and down and down a bottomless pit until the only thing he could see, as he gazed up the black walls of the night, was the sad face of Maria Heredera, spirit of the forest fire.

 

He touched ground inside a metal cabinet, in an unknown room in an unknown building in an unknown country.

The space could barely hold him so he struggled to keep still while he found his bearings. He smelled clean air, a mix of ethanol, bleach, and iodine, but underneath the antiseptic veneer was the undercurrent of something sour and corrosive and something else that had a distinct fishy smell.

He smirked as he Saw a quivering blanket of refractive magic hovering a mile or so above what he assumed was the entire complex. It was intricately designed and deftly woven—the mark of a classically trained mage. With a quick succession of one-handed Forms, he sent a sliver of his own magic to its gleaming underside and felt it disperse into harmless shreds. It was a protective barrier, he decided, meant to repel magical attacks and to ward off mystic espionage. He wondered how Maria had managed to send him through; perhaps the magic of spirits obeyed different rules.

Between the two steel doors of the cabinet was a crack of vertical light. Slowly, Adam shifted so he could study the room outside, taking care to breathe quietly and to avoid knocking the bottles on the shelf behind him.

It was difficult to judge the size of the room from where he was hiding. There were tables, machines, and other cabinets—all doused in a deep yellow light that annoyed his eye—and plastic curtains hanging from the ceiling to give this area an illusion of privacy from the rest of the laboratory. Built in the ceiling were square vents spaced about five or so feet apart and directly beneath them, on the floor, were narrow grills. He cocked his head to one side and heard the soft hiss of the filtered air circulating.

He could see four men inside what he guessed were hazmat or cleanroom suits standing over four stainless steel tables with their backs to him. Each had a smaller table beside him, from where he retrieved and replaced various surgical implements and jars. Adam didn’t have to guess the nature of their work and yet, when one stepped away for a moment, he almost threw up when he saw the bag on the operating table.

It was an inflated plastic box, just large enough to fit a small child—rectangular, transparent, with a pair of gloves sewn into the side facing Adam. Even at a distance and in the harsh yellow light, he could recognize the ground up mix of flesh and bone and the vital organs that had been left behind for harvesting. It reminded him of the paste he sometimes made for his spells by crushing chicken parts with a mortar and pestle. A small mass in the box stirred and fell to one side and Adam found himself staring at a blue eye. He was about to look away when he saw something that chilled him to the bone: the child blinked.

His body moved as though in a dream. He eased the cabinet open and stepped out in the yellow light. One foot forward, then the other next, footsteps quick, quiet, and confident. His left hand lifted in a daze and from his fingers, electricity shot off in four zigzag arcs, lancing across the air until they found their targets; the men were dead before they hit the floor.

Without breaking stride, he stepped over one of the bodies and walked up to the child, not knowing what to do or say. His hands shook as he held them over the mutilated body, hopeless for a spell that could knit back the meat into something that would restore some semblance of dignity. And he knew, as he stared into the face of humanity's cruelty, that there was no power in him that could save this child.

Still, he couldn't force himself to look away. _No_ , he had to look. He had to remember what they do to people like him. 

Inside the box was red pulp where arms and legs should have been. Even the torso had been so pulverized that it took a while to identify the organs that had been purposely left intact to keep the child alive, like islands in a sea of mush: there was the heart, still beating, the lungs that inflated and deflated grotesquely like a pair of gray balloons inside a glistening ribcage, the kidneys, the liver, thoracic arteries and veins, and even the trachea. A testicle remained, skinned and exposed, but the other one had already been harvested and detached from the vas deferens. No stomach or intestines or anything of the digestive tract. He might not have known it was human if it hadn't been for what was left of the face: the lower jaw had been ripped off and an eye was missing but the remaining one was still swivelling wildly in its socket.

“Witchboy,” a voice croaked from an adjacent table, just barely audible. “You came. Fucking at last.”

Adam tore his eyes away from the boy and went over to Ruixian’s table. She was inside the same box but larger to accommodate her length and her body, while obviously injured, remained unbroken. He glanced at the other two boxes and saw the same butchery inside the child’s box; and unlike the other three, she was hooked up to an IV drip. They must have been trying to keep her alive.

Adam grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray and slashed at the plastic.

“How long?” he asked as he worked at tearing open a big enough hole to help her out.

“Ten minutes.”

He flashed her a surprised look as he sawed through the plastic.

“What,” she said, her voice rough and distant, like she wasn’t really there. “I’ve had a lot of practice lately. The others, are they—?”

“Dead. Except for this one to your right.”

“You think I can—”

Adam shook his head. “It’s really bad, Ray. The-there’s not much left of him.”

“I want to see.”

He could see her face through the hole now, bruised, skeletal and bald. Her white shift draped loosely over her, making no noticeable bulge at the chest or hips; she couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. 

“He’s just eight, you know,” she said. “He had the softest blond hair before they shaved it off.”

Adam pried open the slash he’d made and helped her climbed out.

"Easy," he murmured, as he sat her up. She leaned on him heavily.

She placed her feet experimentally on the floor, gingerly and carefully, but when she tried to stand up, there was a brittle-sounding crack in her legs and she promptly fell to the ground. "Fuck!" she cried out. With a hiss, she slung an arm over Adam’s neck and sat back on the table edge, whimpering as she took quick shallow breaths through her teeth.

“Break. Them,” she said in between pants.

“What?”

“They messed up my legs,” she said as she ripped off the needle from her arm. “They broke and set them wrong. They wanted to see if the alignment would self-correct when I healed. Well now, we know. I need you to place one hand just below the knee—yes, there—and the other one here, just above the ankle. That’s the tibia, the big bone. Push at the count of three, all right?”

Ruxian flinched, cried out, and sobbed. Impressively, as soon as the bone was broken, Adam felt microcurrents beginning to stimulate cellular repair.

“How long for the leg?” he asked, eyeing the corridor behind the plastic curtain.

“Just a few seconds. Do the other one—wait! Hold on. Two seconds." She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. "Okay. Now.”

Adam moved to the other side and placed his hands on the other leg. "I'm so sorry," he murmured as he twisted his hands, which elicited another cry shriek from her.

He watched her for a moment, giving her time to rest. She was healing quickly, much faster than she did before, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of experiments they performed on her, what horrors they inflicted to push her powers to grow so much in just over a month. A few minutes later and she was already testing the other leg, carefully flexing and pointing the foot.

As he waited for the last leg to heal, Adam placed his bag beside her and took out a black string from the front pocket. He grabbed her left wrist and began chanting. One round clockwise, two rounds back, knot the end, leave a finger space. Smear the knot with blood. Two rounds clockwise, three rounds back, knot the end, leave two finger spaces. Smear the knot with blood. Three. Four. Five… over and over until he ran out of string, making twelve cycles around her bony wrist in total. Before this, he'd always thought the phrase 'just skin and bones' was always just hyperbole; the same length of string only made nine cycles around his wrist.

“What’s this?” she asked as she daintily placed one foot on the ground.

His hands immediately reached for her and he steadied her by holding her up by the upper arms. “Easy. You got this?"

"Yeah. Just... keep talking to me."

He nodded and withdrew his hands but he watched her warily. "It's a kind of charm. To help escape.”

“Can’t you teleport us out?”

Adam shook his head. “Not from here. There’s a barrier over the whole complex. How long before you’re ready?”

“Two minutes,” she said as she walked over to the boy’s table.

She studied the child for a long while, quietly imagining ways to repair the body. Adam watched her face crumple into something that looked like a grimace, and then smoothen back into resignation. “I can’t fix this, Adam,” she said finally. She placed a hand in one of the gloves and laid a finger over the beating heart. The remaining blue eye swiveled in its socket and looked at her.

"I'm sorry," Adam said, still watching her. "I should have come sooner."

Ruixian closed her eyes and shook her head.

“His mutation hasn’t even manifested yet,” she said softly. “They were too curious so they decided they couldn't wait. They thought they'd cut him open to figure out themselves.”

A door opened and shut somewhere behind them, followed by the sharp sound of high-heeled footsteps falling on tiled floor.

“Ray, we have to go. Someone’s coming.”

She turned to him and nodded, a sudden hardness settling in her eyes. A small spark leapt from her finger and the boy’s brain began to smoke. The heart stopped beating. With a final sigh, the lungs inflated and then deflated for the last time.

“Bye, Teddy,” Ruixian murmured and leaned down to kiss the plastic box.

She grabbed Adam’s hand and they ran for the door.

 

The complex wasn’t as large as Adam had feared but the corridors were clogged with human traffic and there were no windows to differentiate day or night, making it impossible to figure out where he was by way of timezones. Scientists, guards, and suit-wearing administrators pressed around them as they followed the stream to the exit.

“There are too many people,” he said. “Why are there so many people?”

Beside him, under his arm and cloak, Ruixian dragged her feet, looking the very image of fatigue. “The building goes deep. Mostly labs, administrative offices, and classrooms up here,” she said. “The bottom floors are pens, holding facilities, cages; storage for mutants, basically. Lots of manpower needed.”

“Classrooms?”

Ruixian nodded grimly. “This is a teaching facility.”

The seething mass of humanity crowded around them, crammed against walls and each other like rush hour on a Madripoor train—a superorganism of individuals performing different tasks to fulfil the singular purpose of keeping the organized whole functional. Bodies slid and slipped over each other and now and then, a person would detach itself from the swirling bulk and slither inside a room, like a tendril seeking out a niche, or some researcher or bureaucrat would emerge through a door and merge with the crawling pace.

A door to their right opened and a woman in a lab coat stepped out. Her eyes landed squarely on Ruixian and her mouth formed a small ‘o’. Then, a crease formed between her brows and she turned away, overcome suddenly by a concern more pressing than an escaping mutant.

“Are you sure about this?” Ruixian asked, warily eying the woman as she melted back in the crowd. She clung feebly to his arm. “We’re not really invisible.”

Adam gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “They won’t see us unless we bring attention to ourselves,” he said as he brought his hand in front of her face and shook the charm around his wrist. “But try not to bump against anyone and don’t look them in the eye.”

“Okay,” Ruixian said, breathing heavily.

“We should slow down a bit,” he said, giving her a quick scan. “You’ve lost a lot of weight, Ray.”

She looked up to him and nodded weakly.

They were walking behind a tall man in camos, using his wide frame as a wedge to clear the path and as a shield to hide their faces from incoming traffic. Even with the conspicuous scarlet robe and Ruixian’s bare feet and thin shift, nobody seemed to even notice them and those who happened to look their way could never quite focus their eyes on the space that they occupied. Adam kept his head down and his eyes lowered. He kept one hand around the hilt of a knife in one of the hidden pockets of his robe and his other arm in a gentle grip around Ruixian’s shoulders. He could hardly feel any muscle beneath the skin.

“How much farther?” Ruixian asked. She was leaning heavily against him now.

Adam pressed his thumb and forefinger together and made a circle. Closing the other eye, he peered through the hole and slowly Looked left and right. For the third time, he mapped the labyrinth of corridors and rooms and traced their path, careful not to Look at the barrier overhead.

“We’re three rooms from the exit,” he said, opening his eyes. “Hang on, we’re almost there.”

The charm spun rapidly around his wrist, protecting him from observing eyes as they made their way down the corridors. A few times, someone bumped against his shoulder but when they turned to glare at him, their eyes glazed and seemed to slide over him.

“There. I can see the door, Ray. Just a little bit more,” he said as a pair of metal doors came to view. They opened and closed intermittently and Adam caught the glimpse of a blue sky beyond. “Ray, do you— _fuck._ ”

He almost didn’t catch her when she slipped out of his grasp and fell forward. Behind him, a woman tripped and crashed on his back. Somehow, he managed to get up and put some distance between them before passers-by took notice. The woman, flushing a brilliant scarlet, looked like she was about to apologize when a sudden thought came over her. She shook her head as if to clear it and stepped around the two to rejoin the stream of people.

“Sorry,” Ruixian muttered.

Adam removed his backpack and passed it to her. “Take this and get on,” Adam said, offering his back. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

“No, I can—”

“Dammit, Ray, we don’t have time for this,” he said. “Just get the fuck on and let me handle this.”

She managed a weak glare but relented anyway. With some muttering, she put on the bag and climbed on Adam’s back, hanging her thin arms over his shoulders.

“Cross your arms around my neck and hang on,” he said uselessly as he placed his arms under her thighs and stood up. He felt her arms encircle his neck, feather-light and obviously too weak with no real force behind them.  _Too light_ , he thought. _Too light and too weak._  “All right, here we go.”

He wove through the small gaps between clusters of people, keeping his head down as he fluidly made his way to the front and eliciting no more than surprised gasps and some clicking of tongues.

Just a few more yards from the front door. He could already feel the cool air from the flapping doors.

“Adam,” Ruixian whispered urgently to his ear. “Look there, just above the door.”

Adam risked a glance and saw a metal bar with blinking lights. He made a slow stop.

“I think it’s a card reader for employees,” she said. “And a chip detector for subjects.”

“They _tagged_ you?” he hissed, and felt her nod against his right ear. “I can’t short it electropathically; lightning bolts would be hard to ignore even with the charm. I can try a spell but it will take time, give me—”

“I can do it.”

Adam thought it over. “Are you sure? I can—”

“My powers are subtler than yours.”

“I know. But a spell will only take—”

“Adam,” she said firmly, though in a labored voice. “I don’t want to stay in this place for one more second.”

“Ray, I… All right,” Adam said. “All right. I’ll leave it to you.”

“Good. Approach slow but go through fast when I give the signal.”

Adam nodded and started walking again, heeding her instructions to advance slowly. He could feel her tense up against him as she reached out with her powers to probe the detector. An invisible but harmless electric field passed through him, interacting subtly with his own mutant powers. Breathing quietly through his mouth, he slowed down further and waited for the signal that she was ready.

“Ray—”

“I almost got it. Just shut up for a while.”

“Okay, just—make the waveform a little tighter. Suppress the amplitude.”

Ruixian responded with an annoyed groan. Some seconds passed before she finally made a gentle tap against Adam’s shoulder. He felt the field strength intensify and knew that she had begun working on the detector. He quickly took the last few steps, passed under the detector, and walked out the door. He stepped out in the sunlight, relieved that no alarm had sounded. He could even feel Ruixian relaxing as she loosened her grip around his neck.

"We did it," she whispered, her shallow breath ghosting on his neck as she panted.

Then, a hand grabbed his left forearm and threw him bodily across the threshold.

“Ray!” he shouted as he felt her body separate from his.

He crashed heavily on his side but even as the ground scraped his skin, he extended a hand in Ruixian’s direction and gestured a Form to soften her landing with a cushion of air. Struggling to his feet, he positioned himself between Ruixian and their attacker. 

“Stay back!” he said. His robe flared open behind him, hiding her from their attacker’s line of sight. There was some screaming around him, as people cleared the space and ran for the gates.

The man made a sign of binding with his left hand and the crowd yelped and groaned as belts unwound themselves from waists and flew toward Adam and Ruixian. Adam Formed the counter-gesture and the belts dropped lifelessly to the ground.

“ _Oho_!” the man said with an amused look. “ _T’es magicien_!”

Adam unclipped his robe and brought out his knife. He held it before him, eyeing the man’s belly, and electrified it in his grip. He was up against a mage; he must strike with the intent to kill. 

With a sudden cry, he pushed against the ground and propelled himself forwards, bringing down the knife towards his target. The air crackled and hissed as the blade cut through space.

" _Oho!_ " the man said again. With an angular motion of his left hand, the mage conjured a glossy sheen between them, halting the knife’s descent just a hair’s breadth over his belly. "Hah!" Cackling, he jabbed two fingers into the flesh above Adam’s hip bone and made a popping sound with his lips.

Adam had no time to repel the attack. There was a tearing sensation in his side as heat ripped through the protective spells he had woven into his skin, penetrating deep enough to puncture a kidney. The explosion extended beyond his body and the shock of rapidly expanding air blew him backwards a few yards, forcing him to his knees.

"Fuck," he muttered. He had miscalculated. Blood was already dripping down his side, soaking through his shirt, but the pain was still a distant abstraction. In front of him, the mage smiled viciously as he wiped bloodied fingers on his pants.

Quickly, despite the pain, Adam scampered to his feet and placed protectively in front of Ruixian, who was huddled unconscious on the ground. She was already wrapped in his robe and that had shielded her from the blast. The lingering spectators were not so lucky; around them were the charred bodies of those who were too close to the explosion.

“ _Tu me comprends_?” the mage asked as he walked towards them.

Adam crouched lower and brought his knife higher before him. With his other hand, he gestured a series of Forms, weaving additional layers of protection in the robe's fabric.

The man pointed at Ruixian with an open palm. “ _Tu protéges cette chienne? Ta copine ou quoi?_ ” he said with a sneer. “Your whore, yes?”

Adam spied a small structure to his right. No people coming out, probably empty. With scarcely a thought, his robe wrapped itself tighter around Ruixian and flew her towards the building’s rooftop.

The man made a move towards her but Adam quickly intercepted his flight. With a grunt, he caught the man’s ankle and swung him hard to the ground, away from Ruixian.

Adam pressed a hand over his wound as he watched the mage rolled on the dirt. "Fucker," he muttered, catching his breath as he fell back on his knees. He risked a moment to look down and saw that blood—his blood—was flowing copiously down his leg.

A sudden movement to his left caught his eye and, to his despair, he saw two more mages—a woman and a man—emerged from a nearby building. “Fuck,” Adam muttered again as they joined the first mage, who was already climbing to his feet some yards away.

He was exhausted, injured, and outnumbered. On a good day he could have taken two but three strained his chances. With a curse under his breath and a quick Form behind his back, he dug a penny out of his pocket and held it high over his head. The woman was the first to look and before she could figure out the feint, Adam flipped the coin as high as he could. Her eyes followed it, up and up and up, already trapped in his Trick and unable to tear her attention from the spinning penny.

With a shout, he thrust both hands before him, twisted his fingers in a sequence of elaborate Forms, and slammed his palms to the ground. Immediately, there was another explosion and the ground under his attackers broke apart in a cloud of dust and projectile rocks, giving him enough cover and a head start. He sprinted for Ruixian as fast as he could, pumping magic in his thighs to propel himself farther with each step. Heart pounding, muscles burning, he pushed himself to the limits of endurance, even as magic extracted its cost from his body. He could feel his lungs on fire as he drew in ragged panting breaths and already there were black spots popping in and out of his vision. Behind him, an enraged scream split the air as the two men worked together to dispel his spell.

Adam was vaulting over a half-wall when he heard the sizzle of a familiar spell. With his body parallel to the ground, he flew over the structure and twisted in the air to narrowly avoid twin beams of light that had been aimed at his arms. With one palm he deflected the blasts away from building and with another he threw a lightning bolt, striking one man in the chest. The mage crumpled to the ground and didn’t get up.

Distracted, Adam landed clumsily on his feet. He slipped backwards and, carried by his own momentum, crashed against the building’s wall, knocking the air out of his lungs. He gasped and fell to the ground in a heap.

“Hold!” The other man—the one who had grabbed him by the door—had caught up to him. With another gesture of binding, two cords emerged from his sleeves and slithered across the ground and up Adam’s arms, wrapping themselves around his wrists and holding them over his head so that he floated a few inches off the ground. They must have been spelled too, for his hands lost all sense of touch and he could not command his fingers to bend and make Forms. 

“No more running,” the mage said. Panting, he made his slow approach and, with another Form, his hand took on a deadly red glow.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut and began chanting, only to feel another cord slither around his neck and squeeze, choking off his words. His eyes bulged out as his chest struggled for air.

“You die now, filth-lover,” the man said as he gently placed his hand on Adam’s chest. He was so close now that Adam could smell the sour heat of his breath.

Adam’s mouth opened in a silent scream as his flesh, no longer protected by magic, sizzled and smoked under the man’s touch. He could smell his skin burning and he might have retched if not for the cord wrapped around his neck.

The man laughed. “No use screaming, filth-fucker. Your whore die next. But I think I will first—”

The mage paused and frowned. "I will first—" Then, his eyes fluttered closed and he fell to one side with a thud. Behind him the woman—last of the three mages—stood with wide-eyed shock, her own glowing hand now glistened with her comrade’s blood. Weeping quietly, she pulled at the cords around Adam’s neck, her hands trembling uncontrollably and her nails digging into soft flesh.

Oxygen rushed back into Adam's lungs and he took a moment to cough and wheeze for the air that he desperately needed. “Thank y—”

“That was my brother, Sorcerer Supreme!” the woman cried hysterically, trembling hand gesturing wildly at the man fallen by her feet. “Now, go! Survive or we all die!”

She made a quick twisting gesture with her left hand and the cords around Adam’s wrists tightened and dragged him up the wall. His shoulders protested at the sudden acceleration and for a while he panicked when the strain on his lungs prevented him from breathing again. Then, once he had reached on the rooftop, the cords fell away from his wrists and he fell on his back.

And he could breathe again, finally. He hungrily sucked in the air, panting and groaning, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he had finally gathered himself, he turned his head and saw that he had landed a few feet from the red cloak, which was still wrapped protectively around Ruixian. He clamped one hand over his wound and crawled over to her.

"Ray. Are you okay? Ray." It took a few nudges before she stirred under the pile of cloth. “Ray, the bag. I can—”

A door banged open somewhere close by and men poured out to the rooftop, surrounding them on one side. “Don’t move! Hold your hands up!” one of them shouted.

Sixteen men, to Adam’s quick count, all armed with assault rifles and what looked like grenades. Even as he lay on the ground, he moved to raise his hands in surrender but the men open fired anyway. Quicker than thought, his robe detached itself from Ruixian and flew around them in a scarlet fury, easily arresting the rain of bullets, which fell around them in a perfect crescent.

“Ruixian, are you okay?” he asked over the sound of gunshot, twisting on the ground next to her. His breaths came quick and shallow and the strain of using the robe felt like a hammer striking his head.

“Adam, look,” she said weakly, lifting a bony finger towards the sky.

Adam turned his head and followed her line of sight. The aircraft was hovering just above them, casting a shadow that wasn’t there before. The insignia, painted in white against black, was clear and unmistakable even through the red haze of pain.

“It’s over. We’re done,” Ruixian said as she closed her eyes and clutched his hand.

Adam's breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat, made paralyzed and bloodless as if he had suddenly plunged in a pool of icy water. “Oh, no,” he managed to croak in a half-voice filled with dread. A hatch opened from the ship's belly.

“They’ve sent an Avenger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and to those who left kudoses! Really appreciate it, guys. :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Avenger


	3. Avenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam confronts the Avenger and pays a cost higher than he'd anticipated. A familiar face makes an unexpected appearance.
> 
> Elsewhere, Billy flirts awkwardly.

Adam rolled on his back and squinted against the orange sun, barely making out the ship’s silhouette in the twilight glare.

“Hold!” A voice called out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw one of the men raise a fist over his shoulder, abruptly cutting off the hail of bullets. The man pressed on his earpiece and whispered something that Adam didn’t hear.

"Roger that," he said as his eyes flicked up.

A shadow fell briefly over Adam's face as a figure dove out of the craft, sleek and black against the sunset sky as it fell down an impressive height, twisting and turning in the air. The Avenger somersaulted a controlled descent and landed on one knee with a muffled thump.

Adam kept one hand pressed over his wound as he slowly extricated the other one from Ruixian’s death grip. _Sixteen men. One Avenger,_ he thought over the stabbing pain radiating from his side. There was a long moment of anticipation as mage and Avenger stared each other down, each measuring the other up. He would have made a pretty sight—broken body supine on the ground, craning his neck to see the Avenger as blood poured out of his side—while the Avenger cut an imposing figure, standing purposeful and confident in his standard SHIELD uniform, which was loose-fitting and nondescript enough to make it impossible to conceal his identity.

Adam would have had the odds if it were just the men and he had both hands. But with Ruixian and an unknown Avenger in the equation, he didn't think he could—

A shot rang out.

As though responding to his thoughts, the Avenger had drawn a gun and fired a shot at Ruixian’s head. The robe had swooped in just in time to catch the bullet, which fell to the ground with a sharp _clink_.

“Stay down, Ray,” Adam whispered and then added firmly, “Let me handle this.”

Her face twisted briefly in a frown and for a moment he thought she might insist on fighting but in the end, she simply bit her lip and nodded.

"Don't look."

She closed her eyes and turned away, resting her cheek on the ground.

“Stand down, mage,” the captain said over them.

Adam looked up to the man and bared his teeth. He could taste iron in his mouth and the ground was growing warm and wet with his own blood. Spells flared and sputtered across his skin as his magic attempted and failed to mitigate the blood loss. ~~~~

“You are bleeding out, boy,” the man continued. “Surrender the mutant or you die here.”

“Fuck y-you,” Adam said in a drawn out breath.

The man's face twisted with disgust. He already had his gun pointed at Adam but before he could fire, the Avenger quickly made his move.

He was a blur of motion and before Adam could even make sense of what was happening, he was already pivoting on the spot to take Adam with a downward kick of his heel. The robe flew up and snaked around his calf to block the kick and immediately, as though he had expected this, the Avenger rotated himself about his trapped leg to knee Adam’s stomach while simultaneously twisting about his spine to sink his right elbow in Adam’s exposed chest. The robe extended itself again, wrapping around the Avenger’s other leg and his right upper arm before he could break Adam’s sternum. And then, finally, the Avenger bent his left arm backward over his shoulder and aimed the gun at Adam’s heart. The robe wrapped itself around the left wrist and pulled, angling it just slightly off his torso.

The robe shuddered under Adam’s concentration as it held the Avenger aloft just a few inches above him, like one of those circus acrobats who suspended themselves in the air with lengths of cloth. Adam panted as he focused on constraining the robe in its position, fighting to keep its shape against the Avenger’s calculated resistance. He had him trapped; just one more push—one more burst of magic—and he could snap the Avenger in pieces. But as it was, it took all of him to restrain the Avenger. Any more and he might break his hold on the Chaos inside him, thrashing to get free.

“Y-you Avengers are so f-fucking _good,_ ” Adam said with a huff. He could see the Avenger’s masked face just a foot or so over him, sharp eyes still calmly studying the robe’s contorted shape. “What a service to the co-community.”

Despite the mask, Adam could see the Avenger's brows furrow in curiosity, as though Adam had said something he didn't expect. With a soft creak of leather, the Avenger turned his head and, quite accidentally, met Adam’s eyes for the first time.

Then, something happened. Magic rushed in a disconcerting ripple under his skin, like a dam breaking and above him, the Avenger gasped and shivered, as though assaulted by that surge of magic too.

It started off warm, almost reviving, and then grew hotter until it felt like he was burning from the inside. He tried to scream but the sensation descended with such swiftness that it knocked the breath from his lungs, choking out all sound. And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, pain exploded in his skull.

His hands flew reflexively to his head, his face contorting grotesquely as his grip on his magic finally slipped.

With his concentration broken, the robe released the Avenger, who quickly spun away and landed with a foot on either side of his thrashing body. In a flash, the Avenger turned his guns away and shot down six men. Before the rest knew what was happening, he had already descended on them and knocked another three out.

All these Adam observed bleary-eyed, in fragments, as the hammering in his head intensified. His body curled in a tight ball as finally, the accumulated debt of magic slammed against him with such crushing force that kept him from drawing breath.

 _Not now, not now_ , he thought through the delirium of skull-splitting agony. He struggled to open his eyes and saw one man collide heavily into two others, as the Avenger landed a solid kick on his chest.  _Graceful_.  _Like a dance._

He heard shouting, punctuated by gunfire, and he might have wondered what was happening, why the Avenger was attacking the men instead, if he could muster a single coherent thought. 

Another wave of torment racked his body and forced his eyes shut. This time he paid with bones. The splintering began at his finger tips, propagating up his arms and then radiating through the rest of his skeleton. Adam sobbed quietly; every shallow gulp of air with his shattered ribs felt like the stab of a knife.

It must have taken the Avenger no more than a minute to take down the sixteen men but to the time-augmented world of a mind in anguish, it felt like hours had passed.

Chaos magic sang out to him, soothing and tempting in its saccharine siren voice, promising to make everything better: his organs and skin knitted, his bones made whole, and his head relieved of the abominable hammering inside. But Adam knew he couldn't give in, so he coiled tighter into himself and focused on the pain instead.

 

At some point, he felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his back, followed by the familiar tingling warmth of Ruixian’s powers hijacking his nervous system. He managed to pry his eyes open and saw her, through a bleary haze of shapes and colors. She was sweaty, pale, and shivering like she was about to pass out, but she forced herself to sit up right.

“Where’s the Avenger?” His voice was barely a whisper and sounded so far away. He couldn’t feel what she was doing but from the puckered look on her face, he could see that she was struggling, improvising in response to the price that magic was progressively extracting from his body.

“Rounding up the men. Those still alive anyway,” she said, closing her eyes to concentrate, eyes that seemed to bulge out of her shrivelled face.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But it’s over for now. He seems to be on our side. I won’t question it.”

Adam started to sit up. “No, I gotta—“ He had barely shifted an inch when he screamed, splintered bones piercing muscles. His body seized in excruciating pain, freezing him in place.

“Stay put!” Ruixian snapped as she gently pressed him down. She put some power behind the command and when he tried to open his mouth to protest, his jaw stayed shut. He could only watch as the Avenger approached and knelt beside him.

“He can’t talk. I’m keeping him still,” Ruixian said automatically. Then, as though in afterthought, she pressed another hand on Adam’s forehead and another wave spread mercifully through him, dispelling all physical suffering except the agony in his skull.

And then, to Adam's surprise, the Avenger leaned over and whispered something to her ear. She didn’t even flinch.

“All right. But very,  _very_ carefully. I’m doing my best to keep the vital organs intact but his body's still accumulating damage. Just keeping his ribs from puncturing the lungs is a struggle.”

There was a brief exchange between them that Adam couldn’t hear and then he was placed on a stretcher and carried into the ship, which had landed stealthily some yards away.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Ruixian said as soon as the hatched closed and the ship began to climb the sky.

Adam couldn’t see much of the plane’s interior but he had an awareness that it was small, probably designed to carry only a handful of people for short excursions. There was the sour whiff of dried sweat under the coppery odor of his own blood diffusing in the musty air, mixing in with the unmistakeable scent of coffee and oil.

A brief turbulence jostled the plane as it finally breached the stratosphere and the protective shield over the compound. “Are we your prisoners now?” Ruixian asked, her voice breaking a little. 

Going through all that to exchange one prison for another... there's a lovely thought.

The Avenger didn't respond at once. And when he did, his voice was muffled and measured. "That's up to you," he said, and the words had begun to trip over each other in Adam's ears.

"I guess I could use use the change of view," Ruixian said, all moxie and bravado. "Please make sure my new cell has a window."

He heard a sigh. And then the Avenger was padding over and sitting on the floor by his head. He produced a syringe from a small white box and passed it to Ruixian, who read the label and passed it back to their captor with a brusque nod. There was a slight pinch in his arm and moments later, a feeling of lightness spread wonderfully through his body. He didn’t even think to resist the drug as it smothered him in thick vapors of rest. He smiled inwardly and floated on the feeling, imagining he could fly again.

But the relief only lasted for a few minutes before turning into dread. Just for a moment, the fog parted slightly and in that brief window of lucidity he remembered where he was and how defenseless his mind had become; he had been stripped bare of all protective spells, including those that had kept sleep at bay, and now the drug and the exhaustion of the past month were quickly pulling him under.

He struggled to Form with his fingers and say the words so he might cast the spells but with Ruixian’s powers shackling every muscle, he was powerless against the looming oblivion. He watched her eyes, filled with worry and determination, and the Avenger’s masked head, hovering over him like an omen in the sky or a dark calamitous wave cresting in the distance. Everything was blurring out of focus, disintegrating to meaningless shapes. Deep in his chest, chaos swirled excitedly and he could have sworn he could _hear_ it laughing.

But he decided he wouldn’t despair. Not this time. He had succeeded in saving Ruixian at such a high cost, it _had_  to work; otherwise, it would have all been for nothing. Dante and Oscar. His body. His mind. He had paid so much for this. It _had_  to mean something. Chaos magic would not take what he'd paid for with blood and soul. He and Ruixian would escape this Avenger and run away and everything would be back on track. They were too close now to that new life that they had promised each other. He won't fail her now.

 _Hope and fear_ , that’s what Loki had said. _Chaos magic feeds on hope and fear._ Adam held on to that thought as everything else turned white.

 

_“Billy!”_

_He woke with a start. Jarred, disoriented, he looked around and tried to remember where he was._

'Remember'.... that’s an odd word, _Billy thought to himself as he rubbed the sleep off his eyes._

_Right. He was at the playground. He rolled his head to one side to work out the kink in his neck and then looked around for his brothers._

_“Billy! Billy! Billy! Billy!” Abel squealed as he raced to the bench where Billy had been playing the dutiful brother before he had dozed off. Trailing behind the sprinting boy was Seth, with a look of immense concentration on his face as he strove to keep up with his twin._

_“Did you see? Did you see?” Abel said, bouncing up and down excitedly like a subatomic particle. “I swung all the way across the monkey bars!” he screamed, beaming. He was drenched in sweat, practically dripping, and his outrageously expensive school uniform was stained with dirt and grass and some suspect yellow liquid that Billy didn't want to think about._

_“Sure did, squirt,” Billy lied, flinching as he tried to dust off the white shirt and wipe away as much of the incriminating stains as possible. His mom would be so mad._ Or worse: disappointed, _he thought with an internal roll of his eyes. “Aw, Abe, I told you to be careful. Mom will flip.”_

_“Abe-iz-in-troooouuubbble,” Seth said in a sing-song voice._

_With a fierce battle cry that would have made Thor proud, Abel lunged at him and tackled him to the ground. The two kids piled in a screeching heap of limbs, toppling over each other on the grass as they rolled around and wrestled._

_Billy sighed a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. Yet for some reason, his heart stirred fondly at the sight of the two boys—and fondness, unlike supreme irritation, was not a sentiment he often associated with his brothers. It was more than that too; it was almost as though he... missed them._

_He frowned as the thought hinted of something not right. But before it could take root, a passing shadow fell over his face and broke his train of thought._

_“Need help?” The blond boy took the space to his right and passed him his milkshake._

_“Nah, the damage's done so might as well let them tire themselves out. Point of no return.” He took a sip and made a face. “Strawberry. Yuck”_

_The boy nodded and then snorted. “You’re crazy, Kaplan. Strawberry’s the best.” He took the cup from Billy's hand and took a sip, staring deeply into Billy’s eyes. “Ahhh, strawberry,” he said with relish, closing his eyes and throwing his head back with a sigh. The sight of it was so freaking beatific, it was almost angelic. Unfair. “Ahhh…”_

_Billy gave his shoulder a playful punch and took back the cup. With an exaggerated wrinkling of his nose, he took a daring gulp and made choking sounds. “Yuck!” he said again. They exchanged a grin and turned back to the boys rolling in the dirt._

_“Have you told them yet?” the other boy asked with too conversational a tone, like he wasn't too invested in the answer._

_And wasn't that just so freaking adorable? Billy smiled to himself as he considered his response. He was aware of the boy's eyes on his face and the knowledge filled his stomach with butterflies. Still grinning, he watched Seth get the advantage, pinning Abel to the ground as he sat on his brother's chest. A passing mother frowned at their roughhousing and shot Billy a judging glare._

_“No, I haven’t,” he finally_ _said as Seth wrapped his hands around Abel's throat. Abel made dramatic choking sounds, complete with flailing legs, and clawed desperately at Seth’s arms and face. “Easy on your brother, Seth.”_

_And then, with a final, mighty thrust of his fist to the sky, Abel perished a heroic death. “Oh, cruel gods!” he cried out as his eyes closed, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as his head lolled to one side._

_With that epic struggle finally concluded, Billy turned back to the boy beside him and grinned. “How about you? Told your mom yet?”_

_“Nope,” the boy said, popping his lips. He stared deeply into Billy’s eyes and sucked a loud slurping gulp from his milkshake. Billy snorted and laughed again._

_There was something wrong about all this. Something off. It tickled at him, like a word that was just at the tip of his tongue._

_“I remember this one,” another voice said from his left. Deeper and older, as though the years had weighed it down. “I learned something important about you.”_

_It was a different voice... sort of... only when Billy turned to look, it was the same boy_ _watching him, bright and golden and—_

_His body stiffened. The world froze. Something clicked in his brain and he turned back to his right and saw that the blond boy had gone back to watching his brothers as they shrieked and chased each other around the swings._

_Billy stood up and looked around him. Skyscrapers towered over him, gray and severe as they reached for the sky—too tall, as in a dream, almost scratching the clouds. Manhattan. An early October afternoon, bright and sunny filtering through the gaps between buildings. Overhead, a flock of birds flew in a V-formation, migrating south or north. It was a memory almost a decade old._

_“Yeah, me too,” he said carefully, eyebrows pulling into a frown. Something was off, he could taste it, the sort of gibberish that one might expect from a dream—like a green sky or skyscrapers literally scraping a sky made made of wood. Something that was there and yet... shouldn't be. “But it didn’t happen like this," he continued. "This boy… he wasn't... no..._ You _weren’t there.”_

_“I guess I wasn’t,” the man said. “But I was, the first time it happened.”_

_“Don't—Stop with the riddles. I hate it when you do that.” There it was again. An illogical thought._

_The man smiled and tipped his head up to watch the plodding clouds. “I know you do.”_

_“You are made of me," Billy echoed. “That's what you said. And for some reason I feel inclined to believe you. I think I know what you mean.”_

_“You do?”_

_“You’re my conscience, aren’t you?”_

_The man rolled his eyes, gave Billy a sideway glance, and snorted. “Sometimes, I guess.”_

_“Erm… The anthropomorphic manifestation of my magic?”_

_“So close,” the man said, smirking as he turned so that his whole body faced Billy. His head tilted to one side, curious and patient. “But no dice. Try again, Wiccan.”_

_“What?" Billy arched an eyebrow. "I’m actually Jewish. I mean I'm not very good at it but they haven't kicked me out yet or anything."_

_“Huh?”_

_“I’m not wiccan. I’m Jewish.”_

_The man's eyebrows shot up as his lips formed a silent 'o'. "You're still Asgardian." He said it with an amused smile, like he was trying not to laugh at a private joke. “I guess that makes sense. Things would have happened differently.”_

_Billy frowned as he attempted, once again, to divine the truth lurking in between the words and, once again, failing, shook his head as if he could also clear the cobwebs in his head. “No more riddles and poetically creepy one-liners. Who are you? And no equivocation this time. I want a name. Age. Species. Social security number.”_

_“I’m…” the man began hesitantly, biting his lip like he was unsure of the answer himself. Then, a long moment later, he nodded to himself. Resolute and decided, he declared confidently: “I’m Teddy. Teddy Altman.” He twitched his eyebrows toward the other boy on the bench. They looked identical, except the man before Billy was broader and taller. And a little weathered too._

_But the face was the same bright sun._

_Billy closed his eyes and took a deep breath._ Easy there,  _he_ _thought to himself._ Pretty boy might still eat your face.

_"The rest of your questions, I can't answer," Teddy Altman continued,"because honestly? They don't mean anything here."_

_And then, with an internal shrug, Billy decided that there were worse things to go than having his face eaten by this guy._

_“Okay,_ Teddy _,” Billy said with emphasis._

_Huh._

_It was so pedestrian, so unexpected, and yet now that he had the name, he knew that it couldn’t have been anything else._

_“Teh-dee,” he said again, slowly so as to relish between his lips each tender wisp of syllable. The name felt good on his tongue, like it had always belonged in his mouth._

_His eyes widened at the thought._ Wow, okay, Kaplan. What the hell was that? _He felt like a bucket of cold water had just been upended over his head._

_He took a quick sip of his milkshake. Strawberry. He forgot. So disgusting._

_“That’s a human name,” he said as he ran his hand along the metal arm of the bench. It was solid to the touch. Was he really dreaming again? “_ Are _you? Human, I mean?”_

_“No, but I was raised human,” Teddy said. He took the milkshake and sipped, holding Billy's gaze as he swallowed, exuding the same intensity as that other, younger version of him sitting just a few feet from them. As though this demonstration of consuming dairy product somehow proved a point. Like drinking the milkshake would mean that he’s human? “Grew up right here in New York.”_

_"I think you're a long way from New York right now."_

_"You could say I've been farther."_

_“And now you’re inside me,” Billy said, immediately regretting the words that came out of his stupid, stupid mouth. It was a minor consolation that_  both _their eyes grew wide and that they_  both _turned a deep scarlet. “I mean now you’re in my head.”_

_“Yes. Right. Of course,” Teddy stammered and choked as he took another slurp of Billy’s milkshake. He passed it back and turned away, whistling as if that could shake away the embarrassment, and then added, “No, I wasn’t always here.” He cleared his throat and thrust his right hand out to Billy. But he kept his head turned away._

_For a long moment, Billy stared dumbly at the offered hand and then, not knowing what he was expected to do with it, proceeded to execute the world’s most awkward handshake._

_If Teddy noticed how mechanical it felt, he didn’t show it. Instead, he twisted their hands up so that only their palms were touching—like hands joined in prayer. “You feel that?” Teddy said as he pressed against Billy._

_Billy blushed deeper and took refuge in his milkshake again, all too aware of the tremulous touch between their hands, the warmth of Teddy’s palm, and the rough feel of skin on skin._

Palm to palm in holy palmers’ kiss, _his intruding brain supplied again and_ Holy fucking shit, Kaplan. Calm the fuck down.

_Billy glanced around them, imagining for a second how this unfolding spectacle between him and this man who called himself Teddy might appear to anyone watching, what sort of meaning they might misconstrue from this very public display that was just as confusing to him as to the spectator. This was his area after all and there were people here who knew him. What would they think if they saw him pressing hands à la Romeo and Juliet with this strange man under the full glare of broad daylight? What were these homosexuals up to now? Someone think of the freaking children!_

_Then, with a feeling that was both relief and remorse, he remembered that it was just a memory... a mirage of the mind... nothing real._

_“Um…” Teddy slowly spread his fingers and interlaced them with Billy’s. His hand was so big and so warm and the hairs on Billy’s arms stood on end as their fingers brushed against each other. “How about now? Feel anything?”_

_“Feel what?” Billy said with a forced laugh. “Violated?" His eyes darted left and right as he continued with his nervous chuckling. "Hey, man, Teddy, man, I don’t hold hands with strange men unless they buy me dinner first.”_

'Buy me dinner first'? _he thought to himself, wishing he could just disappear there and then._ Well done, Billy. Come on!

_Teddy turned to him and wrinkled his nose. “You let them stroke your face, though?”_

_“Only when they’re ridiculously cute,” Billy said thoughtlessly in another try at being facetious. Mortified, he turned back to his milkshake and almost choked when he swallowed._

_“I don’t know... man, Billy, man.” Teddy smirked, raising an amused eyebrow. His lips were a stern, controlled line but his eyes were_ laughing. _“You looked pretty comfortable.”_

 _Billy frowned._ Is he—is he _flirting_?

_“I was taken by surprise,” he deadpanned._

_“You were rubbing your face on my hand.”_

_“That was… um…_ shit. _”_

_“And your eyes were closed.”_

_“Hey, crater of death and destruction under a black void of infinite doom. Very romantic stuff. I was caught in the moment, all right?” Billy said in a last-ditch attempt to be glib._

_“You were practically_ mewling _.”_

_“I was NOT!” Billy said hotly, finally losing all pretense of composure and flushing so deeply that he was sure his arteries were on the brink of bursting. “Wow. Theodore Rufus Altman, you are a certified ass.”_

_Teddy froze as though he had been struck and then suddenly burst out laughing, doubling over as his eyes crinkled happily and his whole body shaking so vigorously that his joy seemed to ripple to the very space around him. He was smiling, and that warmed Billy somehow, and his smile was so bright it almost hurt to look. Teddy took the milkshake back and sipped again. “Theodore Rufus Altman?”_

_“It felt necessary to use your whole stupid name,” Billy said petulantly and with as much haughtiness he could manage in his humiliated state._

_What was he doing? Why was he flirting back? And why did it feel so natural, like they'd done this a thousand times before?_

_"Oh, it's necessary, is it?" Teddy retorted in a mocking tone._

_“To formally declare that you are an absolute jerk.”_

Freaking smooth, Kaplan, _he thought, sighing to himself._  So freaking smooth. Now he knows you're a dork.

_“Thanks.”_

_“There should be a certificate. Signed and everything.”_

Oh no, stop! You stop now, Billy Kaplan, you're spiralling!

_“Sure,” Teddy said, still grinning. “So, where'd you get Rufus?”_

_“'What?"_

_"I never told you my full name, Billy."_

_Billy frowned. "Course, you did!”_

_“Nope,” Teddy said triumphantly, popping his lips again._

Theodore Rufus Altman _. Where did Billy get that? It just came to him in the spur of the moment._ Huh. _He curled his fingers downwards so they were practically holding hands now. Around them, the memory from ten years ago played out like a film. A gust of wind blew around them, kicking up leaves and lifting their hair._

_“It just… It came to me. Did I—Do I know you, Teddy? From before um here?”_

_Teddy grin faded to a smaller smile. “Yeah,” he said. His face shifted, just a little bit, almost imperceptible, and yet it felt like all the light had fled the world. "You really don't remember, do you?"_

_“Billy! Billy!” Seth screamed as Abel caught him in a headlock. "Billyyyyyyyyyy!"_

_Billy ignored them._

_“Were we friends?”_

_Teddy nodded again, the gloom on his face lifting a little._

_“Were we…?” Billy couldn’t finish the thought so he squeezed Teddy’s hand instead._

_Teddy stared at him intently, his face brimming with such sad joy that his eyes almost shined._

_The question hung between them, a question that had to be asked, a question that Billy couldn't bear to give voice because he knew that either answer could only lead to tragedy._ _And yet, Teddy heard it all the same. His lips parted as if to say something but then he thought better of it and shook his head instead, still with that stupid, patient smile on that stupid, perfect face. He withdraw his hand with an ease that didn’t surprise Billy._

_“Teddy,” Billy said as another truth made itself known. “Are you an Avenger?”_

“I am,” a voice was saying. “Or was. I mean officially, I am. But that word doesn't really mean the same thing it used to. So I’m not really sure anymore.”

“How do I know that you're telling the truth?” another replied.

“Well, I guess we just have to wait for him to wake up, don’t we?”

Adam tried to focus on the voices. They were familiar but he couldn’t place them in his memory. Their words slipped over each other, obscuring meaning, and it was difficult to follow most of the conversation.

“How long was I there?” he heard the second voice ask.

“A little over a month,” the first one replied.

“Oh. It felt a lot longer.”

A short pause, filled only by the intermittent beeping of a machine. Adam could feel the scratchy cotton sheet laid over him and that uncomfortable pressure of a large needle in his arm. There was the salty smell of food in the air too but that only made him want to retch.

“He’s pretty banged up but he’ll be all right,” the second voice—Ruixian, _yes!_ he remembered—said confidently.

“He’s a good fighter, Ruixian. A supremely powerful mage. But at the end of the day, he’s still just human,” the other one said cautiously.

"He'll pull through. I know it."

“He may not be strong enough.”

“Maybe not,” Ruixian said confidently. "But I am."

A rustling of cloth as someone to his side shifted in their seat. Then, Adam felt a hand over his head and the intrusion of a weak electric field through his skull, so very carefully probing his brain. It touched and prodded against his brainwaves, skirting with feather-light fingers so delicate as though afraid that the slightest slip would shatter him.

“Oh! He’s awake!” exclaimed Ruixian, jumping to her feet.

Adam confirmed the fact with a weak groan. “Oh my god,” he moaned. “I’m dying.”

“You are, asshole,” Ruixian said as she placed her other hand on his chest. His belly tingled as the cells of his body responded to the manipulations of her powers. “I couldn’t heal you properly while you were asleep.”

“Why not?”

“Your powers were resisting me.”

He tried to rub his temples but he couldn’t get his hand to move an inch. He stared at it absently for a few seconds and turned back to Ruixian. “How long was I out?”

“Three days. You’re in the ICU. Well, _an_ ICU. Sort of. You know what, I think  _I'm_ the ICU.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Organs failing. Massive internal bleeding. It was a party. And your body’s not done fucking up. Last night, your bladder _melted_. And that was a mess. You know how hard it is to regenerate an _entire fucking bladder_? And with your powers constantly fighting mine? Holy shit, Adam, how much magic did you use?”

Did he? Use so much magic an organ would outright disappear? He tried to think, but the gears in his mind refused to turn. Where had he been after Madripoor?

“Thank you,” he said, in the absence of a better answer.

“Don’t thank me. You might still die.” Her voice was quiet but she said the words with determination and there was a hardness in her eyes. "And I will never forgive you, if you do. So, here. Drink.”

She held a glass of water to his lips and he drank it hungrily, drinking so passionately he was practically making out with the glass. He closed his eyes and moaned as the cool liquid flowed down his parched throat. When he was done, feeling slightly restored, he turned his eyes on her and studied her.

Ruixian had a wild disheveled look, like she had rushed to regrow her hair and, in her haste, it had come out in uneven patches. Her eyes had a tired dullness to them but her intensity, so incongruous to her diminutive form, had returned in full force and Adam was glad for that. He gave her a look over from the waist to her head and saw that she had regained most of her weight back.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like a pig. I ate non-stop for a day. Not even exaggerating.”

“Good,” Adam said with some relief as he closed his eyes. “That’s good.”

She glared at him for a long second, clearly unhappy that he wasn't displaying the appropriate amount of worry for himself. “I’m fine. Let's focus on you for now.”

"Okay, boss," he said with a smile.

She clicked her tongue and gave his cheek a gentle flick.

“So,” she said and then paused for a long moment.

Adam opened an eye and found her eyebrows pulled into a tight frown.

“So what?”

Her brown eyes shifted to her hands and she asked in a tightly controlled voice, “Dante and Oscar?”

For a while, he stared back at her in confusion and almost said “At home?” with a frown of his own. Then something pushed through the murky half-thoughts that clogged his mind and he remembered. A string of images and impressions emanated from the depths, rippling painfully through the sore tissue as they crystallized into memory: the flight from Madripoor, yes, that was how it started _..._  the spirit of the mountain’s death, summoned at a price... a battle, only half-won.

“With the spirits,” he said, too muddled to realize how that must have sounded to her.

Ruixian’s face twisted to a grimace and she fell quiet again.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Adam said a few minutes later, perplexed by her sudden change in mood.

“Yeah,” she said as she moved her hand over to the other side of his chest. “Now it’s your turn to get fixed up.”

“All right, but do my hands first. Where are we? I need to—”

Ruixian glared at him and flicked his forehead, with more force this time that it almost stung. “No fucking way, shitface. Hold still so I can patch you up.”

“But—”

“Let me heal you first."

"But—"

"Would you _please_ let me heal you first? Or do you want me to try my hand at resurrection?”

“ _Ugh._ All right, you win,” Adam said with a huff. “Thanks, Ray. You saved my life. You saved both of us.”

She made three quick taps on his chest and tilted her head to the left.

The Avenger was in a chair by the foot of his bed, watching the exchange with attentive eyes. He had his mask drawn halfway up his face as he shovelled brown noodles from the plastic box in his hands into his mouth. As soon as Adam’s eyes met his, the soft echo of magic reverberated through his bones, thankfully only mildly uncomfortable this time. The Avenger shivered slightly, as though he felt that surge too, and carefully placed his unfinished lunch (dinner? There were no windows in the room; Adam couldn't tell the time.) on the cardiac table in front of him. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back, his lips assuming a displeased downward curve. And then, with a long-suffering sigh of his own, he reached out to one side of his neck and pulled a zipper.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Adam,” the Avenger said as she tossed her mask onto his chest.

His head throbbed at the onslaught of memory as it broke through the hold of his spell. Too fast for his damaged brain to handle at once. “Ah, _fuck,_ what luck we had,” he said, wincing as he stared at her in disbelief. He laughed at the irony of it all—but only for a very short while; the sudden movement shook his ribs, eliciting a sharp stabbing in his sides. Ruixian stared at him like he'd lost his mind.

“So much luck.” The Avenger took off a glove and threw it right at his face. Perfect aim. “Explain. Now.”

“ _Ow._ All right, all right,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I had no choice. I—”

She threw the other glove and hit him right in the eye.

“ _Ow, fuck._ What the hell was _that_ for?!”

“Sorry, couldn’t help it. But you deserve it. I’m really mad right now.”

“Look. I’m sorry but I had no choice, ok—”

“The next time you say that you had no choice, I’ll throw my boot," she said in an even tone. "And you know me, _Adam_ ; I do not skimp on shoes. These ones are very hard and very heavy.”

“All right. I get it, okay? You’re mad and you have every reason to be.”

“Glad you know it,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest again. “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I hardly remember anything right now. My head hurts.”

It was true. He knew that his name was Adam—and that it wasn’t—and that he was running with Ruixian. But other than that, the rest was a blur—not completely lost, but under a thick haze that dulled remembrance. Like someone had gathered his memories into photographs and spilled coffee all over them.

The ordeal of paying one’s debt to magic was not only excruciating but also unpredictable and discombobulating (yes, that was the first word that came to his mind), often determining costs with some form of cosmic irony—like amnesia from one who had meddled with spells of forgetting—and then exacting them at the most inopportune moments, often to disastrous results. He wouldn’t be surprised to find some memories to be lost permanently. Such was the price of magic, of cheating the universe, and breaking its laws.

"I just... don't remember anything."

“Try _very_ hard,” Kate said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll help you remember. Tell me what happened. Why did you leave?”

She didn't mean that; that was just the way she talked. Adam remembered that much. He took a deep breath and let a few seconds pass before he answered. “It was the Avengers, all right?” he said, feeling a little ashamed. “They wanted me dead.”

"Why?" she asked without a drop of empathy.

Adam tipped his head up and looked her right in the eye. "Because the last time a Chaos mage walked the earth, she committed genocide."

Kate stared him down for a long time, sharp eyes fixed on his face. Around them, the machines beeped and Ruixian worked on him, resolutely ignoring their exchange.

When Kate finally replied, her voice was cold and hard. “I don’t believe you.”

Adam closed his eyes and shook his head. “You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

“Don't I?” she said more to herself than to him. “I wasn’t sure I should take you with me from that roof, you know? I mean after the Winter Soldier and the Jack of Hearts thing, it was a little stupid of me to just trust you off the bat. Especially since you messed with my head.

“But it’s you, Adam. You were there with me in the beginning. So...” She shook her head and smiled a little. “Let’s fight another time. Don't get me wrong; I'm going to rip you a new one but not today. I’m glad you’re alive, I really am. And I’m even gladder I didn’t kill you in Mauritius. That would have been _really_ awkward. Tell me about the past four years. I remember up to Mother.”

“You’re all right for now,” Ruixian said suddenly, sitting up. “I’ve fixed up your vital organs so I’m reasonably sure you won’t die if you try to pee. Congratulations, you have two functioning kidneys again. But I need to rest for a few minutes.”

“Yeah, please. Do that.”

“And I think you two need some catching up,” Ruixian said, turning to Kate and giving her a nod.

“Thanks, Ray,” Adam smiled up at her.

She nodded at him and smirked. “Whatever, loser. I’ll be back in a bit. Let’s get you more water.”

She kissed him on the forehead and stood up to leave.

“Actually,” he called out to her just as she reached the door. “I’d like a milkshake.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said reluctantly. “Vanilla?”

“Nope,” he said with a popping sound of his lips. “Strawberry.”

 

Life in Kate’s safe house was not so much a buzz as it was a low steady hum (and also quite a literal _thrum._ The building shook about every half-hour whenever a train passed by overhead—or so Kate had explained. Adam suspected the true provenance of these strange rumblings to be some nefarious Avenger secret deep in her hideout). Aside from her, Ruixian, and Adam, there were only about a dozen or so other people in the facility but all areas of life were conducted in a clockwork routine—meals, showers, training, bed time—broken only very rarely by briefings, missions, and debriefings. Kate referred to the place as the _Roost_ , which was apt for the Avenger Hawkeye but ironic because it was buried deep underground, a small base hidden in a Moldovan city with a name that her minions guarded with the dedication and fanaticism of a cult. It was cold and stark and everything, including the people’s clothes and faces even, was in muted tones of gray.

The first few weeks were the hardest  on Adam. The destruction that his body had suffered was far greater than he had expected and was more extensive than Ruixian could handle in a few seatings. His days were spent hooked up to morphine, which dulled the pain but exacerbated the fog of confusion that seemed to have since sedimented and calcified around his brain, so he had plenty of time to read books or, when the words began to blur and merge, to watch Moldovan drama. He couldn't understand a word, of course, but the constant shift of shapes and colors amused him well enough to keep him stimulated.

Except for a few hours in the morning when she came to work on his injuries, he rarely saw Ruixian. Though still recovering herself (admittedly at a startling pace; five days after her rescue, she had regained all but ten pounds of her original weight—though Adam suspected she conspired to keep it that way), she assimilated readily into the Roost’s monotony and, consequentially, was swallowed in its iron system of schedules and protocols, which afforded her little time with Adam outside his treatment hours. Even her meals she elected to spend in the canteen with the other inhabitants of the Roost.

But what alarmed Adam most about this particular arrangement, to an increasing degree each day, was his utter defenselessness of this condition. He was completely at other people’s mercy. Kate’s mercy. An _Avenger's_ mercy. He was too addlebrained to focus on anything for more than a few seconds, much less to gather the willpower necessary to cast a spell or to generate even a pathetic little spark (once, he thought that he had succeeded in producing a small current from his finger but it turned out to only be static from the sheets). And in his abject inability to take care of himself, people fussed over him night and day, people whose face he could never quite remember no matter how hard he tried. And even as that heavy cloying fog lifted sluggishly from his mind, it was only replaced by a growing awareness of his helplessness in this incapacitated state, an awareness that readily became frustration.

And still, above all, the thing that infuriated him most was the fact that everyone treated him like he would break at the slightest misstep. Even in his disconcertion, it was clear that there was something big happening that everyone—Ruixian included—was keeping from him. Agitated voices suddenly hushing when they realized he was lucid enough to pay attention... Hard faces that smiled patiently but otherwise looked distracted even as he talked to them... One time, the boy who brought his lunch suddenly burst into tears when he asked if there had been any news on the mutant resettlement of Genosha. He later asked Ruixian about it but Kate gave her a quick look and she only said, "When you're better."

Memory returned to him slowly and selectively. Big things at first: the fight… Arayat… his long exile in Madripoor… and the spell of forgetting that had created Adam Thorne. The details came even more slowly, very painfully, and almost sparingly; he wouldn’t be surprised if some minutiae of his life never came back at all. What was the name of that bakery he loved in Madripoor? The name of that almost-cute prata maker he fancied in the food center in Vineyard Road? The spirit, whose name he couldn’t remember, had told him something important, he was sure but for the life of him, he couldn't even remember how she looked like now. At some point, when the nurse lifted his shirt, Adam was surprised to find a mole an inch above his belly button.

Soon, in his loneliness and feebleness, he became restless and miserable. But for Ruixian’s sake, who seemed to have fit in happily enough in the machinery of the Roost, he tried his best to force a smile and to laugh at her boisterous attempts to take his mind off his injuries.

It would have taken him months if not years or ever at all to recover—or to simply  _not die—_ if it hadn’t been for Ruixian’s ministrations. He never fully understood how she did what she did with powers that were nearly identical to his; ' _Cells communicate through the proteins on their membranes, often with charges or through hydrophobic interactions'_ and something about _'pluripotent stem cells and synapses'_ , she had tried to explain to him a few times but even though he understood all that jargon, he doubted he could ever pull off the same trick. In the end, he concluded that he simply lacked the surgical precision with which she wielded her electrokinesis.

Progress was slow and extremely painful for both of them, since Adam's own electrokinetic powers would sometimes react and lash out at hers. But slowly, she was able to fix him up, organs first, then bones, muscles, nerves, but only very flimsily; she admitted that it had always been challenging to consciously guide the cells of other people, as opposed to the reflexive way her powers controlled hers. Even with her aid, Adam was yet to regain full control of his hands and legs, making him dependent on the people around him for just about every activity including, embarrassingly enough, most bodily functions. And having a catheter shoved up his dick certainly did not improve his mood.

And, perhaps, most importantly, he couldn’t cast the spells that protected him from sleep, which had become an even greater temptation in his recovery. He fought hard at first, staying awake for up to three days at a stretch before sheer exhaustion overwhelmed willpower, caffeine, and the occasional adrenaline surge from a reluctant Ruixian. It always happened gradually, the slip from waking to sleeping, characterized by a blurring of thoughts and an altered state of consciousness that could have been so easily misattributed to the formidable meditation skills of a Formally trained mage.

Then he’d wake up some hours later, panting and drenched in cold sweat, with a terror that took some few minutes of deep breathing and wheedling from the nurse to dispel. But nothing ever happened. No metadimensional parasite trying to eat his face or a demon king prophesied to herald ten thousand years of living darkness or anything; he had not succumbed to Chaos. The sun rose and sank and the world and the stars kept spinning. Nothing but quiet sleep and dreams of a man who looked a lot like Ted, the nurse. Dreams which—like mists dissipating at the warm touch of dawn—he never remembered.

 

“What’s all this?” he asked Kate one day when she picked him up from his room for a walk. Well,  _they_ walked; he was pushed around in a wheelchair.

“Hmm?” Kate asked absent-mindedly as she and Ruixian lifted him from the bed and deposited him in the chair. “What’s all what?”

Even though she was still warming up to him, Adam always felt safer and more at ease when she was around, perhaps because she had been— _was_ … or at the very least, _could_ again _be_ —his friend; every time she had to leave on a mission, she would assign three random men to guard him but they carried out their duties with such cold and impersonal proficiency that he soon started feeling like he was something unwelcome that had to be tolerated. Or worse, in his darker days, a prisoner.

“This.” Adam lifted a hand and made a circular gesture with his wrist, unresponsive fingers limp and lifeless on his knuckles.

“Oh. Just a bunch of people I’ve picked up along the way. I guess it’s sort of become a project. You’re not the only one who picks up strays, you know,” Kate said as she turned to wink at Ruixian, who responded by rolling her eyes.

“What kind of project?” Ruixian asked as they stepped out into the hallway. “You’re not plotting world domination here are you?”

“From a basement?”

“I don’t know Kate,” Adam said. Just then, a group of women walked past them, all in gray jumpsuits and with holsters bulging discreetly at their sides. “Super secret underground base crawling with minions and housing advanced tech. Smells pretty villainous to me.”

Kate laughed above him as she pushed him past the canteen doors and toward the end of the corridor, towards where he knew a war room was. “How do you know I’ve got advanced tech down here?”

“No way you’re using up this much electricity just to power an Avenger safe house,” Ruixian said.

Kate pressed her face against a retina scanner and led them through the steel doors. “You’re right. Call it naiveté or sentimentality but I never meant to keep it a secret from you two. Even from you, Ruixian. I just needed Adam to be a little more functional before we start discussing strategy.”

“I’m not all that recovered, to be honest. My head’s still a little out of it,” Adam said. “And _strategy_? We aren’t staying, Kate. We’ll be out of your hair once I’m well enough.”

Kate rolled him in front of a large steel table in what looked like not so much a war room but a small conference room and gestured for Ruixian to take the seat to his right. It was a small room, austere and gray like everything else in the Roost, and could barely hold the table and the dozen high-backed chairs around it. There were no windows, not even on the door, which Adam noticed had no knob or anything that could be used to pry it open, and the walls were the same gray metal as the floor, except for the one them, which was, instead, made entirely black glass.

“I need your help, Asgardian,” Kate said as she stalked to the other side of the table. Her demeanor had changed, her posture suddenly erect and each movement deliberate and purposeful. She was no longer Kate Bishop, who had been Adam’s friend; she was Hawkeye now, Avenger, SHIELD Agent... “And yours too,” she added, turning to Ruxian with a solemn look on her face. She paused and frowned, as if something important just crossed her mind. "Uh... _Ruixian.._." she said slowly

 _She wants to name her_ , Adam thought suddenly.  _She means to make her one of us._

“No way,” he said immediately, with as much conviction and fervor he could manage. He'd have slammed his fist on the table if he were able to. “I’m out. And don’t bring her into this.”

“But first, let me apologize to you, Ruixian,” Hawkeye went on as she sat down opposite them, carefully placing her hands on the edge of the table. “It was my SHIELD men who were after Adam back in Madripoor so it’s my fault that you got caught in the crossfire.”

“You also tried to shoot me in the face.”

“To be fair, that was a tranq.”

Ruixian folded her hands and gingerly set them on the table. Her eyes dropped and she studied them intently, as if they held the words that she was looking for. “You didn’t know what they'd do to me,” she said without looking up. “That wasn’t your fault.”

Hawkeye shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct, either. True, I didn’t know that there was a SHIELD facility in Mauritius. And when I found out where they were sending you, I was too blinded by my loyalty to SHIELD to suspect that they were performing human experiments. The truth is, I have been receiving disturbing reports for a while now. Suspicious activities from detention facilities all over the world. Funds disappearing. Secret rooms. Shady deals between governments. HYDRA. AIM. This thing goes deep. And at some point, there was just too much information to form a pattern. Too much noise. But I never imagined SHIELD would have a hand in this. I thought, even though everyone else reeked of corruption, that SHIELD would be the good guys. That SHIELD was the exception and—” She paused for a while and stared at Ruixian. There was a change in her voice when she spoke again. “I shouldn’t have surrendered you to them and I am _so so_ sorry for that. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have gone through what you did.”

Ruixian grimaced as she opened her mouth—no doubt to reassure Hawkeye again that it wasn’t her fault—but Adam beat her to it.

“Damn right!” he exploded, with a sudden pang in his head. “If it had’t been for her powers, she wouldn’t have recovered from that! Do you know what it’s like to be split open so people can poke around inside? Alive and _conscious?_ Because I do, Kate. You don’t come out whole from something like that!”

The room was quiet for a while, with only Adam’s heavy breathing and the barely audible hum of something happening on the other end of Hawkeye’s earpiece.

“Adam,” Ruixian said, turning to him with a small smile. “It’s okay. It really wasn’t her fault. She’s just trying to save the world. Like you used to. Like you still want to.”

“I don’t know about that,” Kate said before Adam could respond. “But I’ve made it my personal mission to get to the bottom of this. If there’s an infestation in SHIELD…”

 _Infestation_. The word jogged something in Adam’s mind. Something someone had said to him recently. But as usual, the miasma that clogged his brain choked the thought before it could blossom into memory.

“You said your _spies_. Is this what this whole place is?” he asked, keeping his voice level and calm. “Are you starting your own spy organization, Kate?”

“No,” she said firmly and without hesitation. “This Roost is just a sanctuary for people with nowhere to go. I’m not their boss and they could do whatever they want.” She paused, as if considering, before adding, “But they help me out here and then—don’t give me that look, Adam, it’s only _if_ they want to help! I don’t force them to do anything. I don't even _ask_!”

"So what, they're volunteers? Don't think I didn't notice, Hawkeye. They all look _really_  Young." He emphasized the word, made sure she heard the capital Y.

She glared at him ineffectively, pressed something on her earpiece, and then turned back to Ruixian. “It's one of my men here who discovered that the Mauritian facility was operating on mutants. Off the books.”

“ _Was_?” Ruixian asked.

“We blew it up a few seconds ago.”

 

Adam and Ruixian stared at her in stunned silence. Behind her, the black screen flickered to life to show the wreckage of a burning building.

It took a few moments for the image to penetrate the stupor clouding his thoughts and once it did, Adam felt a surge of panic. This was Hawkeye. He had to remind himself that. She might have been a friend once but she was still an Avenger. He and Ray... they had to get out.

“Well done, Hawkeye,” he said airily, deliberately not looking at her to hide the mounting fear. “I’d clap if I could. Avenger... SHIELD agent... and now, terrorist.”

The truth was that she terrified him sometimes. It was easy for people to underestimate her—human, young, female—and the moment they did, they'd already lost. There was a reason she had been the _de facto_ leader of their old team, and not just because she was the money. Her combat and sharpshooter skills were formidable, true enough, but that wasn't what made her so dangerous. It was her tactical mind in the end, in the way she could swiftly and decisively get things done with devastating competence. Of course in the old days, she put that brain of hers to use by subduing criminals, dismantling drug cartels, or taking down her father's empire. But now to see it put to use like this... running her own underground intelligence agency... spying on SHIELD itself... _blowing up government buildings_. Adam was for once in his life, truly and completely afraid of her.

He wondered briefly if, like her money, she had inherited that same capacity for cunning and violence from her father, and just as quickly he smothered the thought before his flippant mouth decided to make the suggestion public.

“We located a total of eight such facilities and coordinated a simultaneous attack,” she said in a calm and collected voice, almost on auto-pilot as if she had not just committed acts of war against multiple countries. The conflagration onscreen shrank and seven other images popped up side by side, showing the same fiery devastation. “Like I said, there were too many fingerprints on this thing: government officials, HYDRA, AIM, even leaders of mutant organizations and members of the Inhuman monarchy. Finding out that SHIELD was behind Mauritius was the last straw. It was getting too messy and it was clear that more sleuthing would just bury us in more contradictory evidence. So I initiated Project Nero.”

“What happened to the mutants?” Ruixian asked.

Hawkeye shook her head sombrely, breaking her stoic façade for a moment. “Last night, we relocated those we could to Genosha. I didn’t expect there to be so few survivors in just one day. Five percent of our projections.”

“Most mutants were processed and disposed of within a few days of arrival,” Ruixian said. “At least that was how it felt like; it was very difficult to tell time when you’re in the dark all the time. They wouldn’t keep you around unless you’re interesting. Most mutants aren’t.”

“Ninety-seven survivors from all eight facilities.” Hawkeye closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “We expected over two thousand. _God_.”

She took a deep breath before turning back to Adam. “Which brings me to why I was after you in the first place, _Adam Thorne_.” She reached under the table and retrieved an object.

Adam recognized it immediately as it slid across the table. “How did—”

“Like I said, Adam, I need your help,” she said. “We tried to open this, of course, but it has been spelled. Very good job, by the way. A SHIELD mage lost a hand trying.”

Adam frowned at that. It had been pristine when Jacob had given it to him and he hadn’t spelled it after either; there was nothing all that important inside that would have necessitated that, nothing that could be connected back to him. He ran a finger along an edge of the box, its cold surface gleaming under the fluorescent light, and felt the barbed touch of magic pervading the metal. Hawkeye was right: it was powerful magic. He could practically  _smell_ the Encryption spells. More than that, it was _familiar_. An image bubbled painfully to the front of his mind: the woman mage in Mauritius—the one who killed her brother to save him. He wondered if there was another mage in SHIELD, protecting him for some reason. His head throbbed as he attempted to draw out the memory.

“Of course, I didn’t know that I was after you,” Hawkeye continued, breaking his line of thought. “I mean I didn’t even remember you until Mauritius. As it turned out, I was looking for someone else.”

“Who?” Ruixian asked with a frown. “Jacob?”

Hawkeye shook her head. “You must understand… this safe house is just a side project. I’m still an Avenger and an agent of SHIELD for most days of the week. Before Project Nero, I was working a job for the Avengers. A string of murders all over the world.”

“Seems a little beneath the Avengers,” quipped Adam.

“I thought so too, at first. In fact, in the beginning, it was just one murder. An infant, Edmund Rothschild.”

Ruixian gasped and sat up straight straight. “I’m sorry, did you say _Rothschild_? As in wealthiest-family-in-the-world Rothschild? Conspiracy-theory Rothschild? That Rothschild?”

Hawkeye and Adam both nodded.

"More than that, the Rothschilds are an ancient line of mystics. And not just any mystics either. Mages. Very old blood.”

“The oldest. First of the First Seven, to be exact,” Hawkeye said. “That’s about as high profile as you could get in the mystical community so of course, the Avengers were interested. My father had personal connections with a minor branch of the family so I was the natural choice. The child was poisoned, Adam, and during the course of my investigation, I discovered other deaths amongst the ranks of the Seven. In _every_ family. Mostly children. All poisoned.”

The images on the screen changed to photographs of people and buildings distributed around the globe. Adam recognized some of the names. CEOs, world leaders, some celebrities, Kim Jong Un, the Pope.

“The Seven have their fingers behind every major force in the global economy. Politics, media, finance, RnD—you name it. Naturally, like all _other_ world order societies, they go to extreme lengths to preserve their anonymity. But the Seven are also the most powerful mystics on this planet. Might even give Adam here a run for his money on a good day. That kind of physical—no, _mystical_ —power leaves very big footprints. And of course, it’s much harder to hide from other mystics since the high court of mystics has very strict laws against the use of magic on their own kind, what with their already very small population. And let's not forget the taboo against memory magic, which, surprisingly, supersedes necromancy on the  _Vetitum Magicae_ —"this last part she said while staring intently at Adam"—so even if the identities of the families remained hidden, the fact of the existence of the First Seven remained known to the magical community.

“And now there is someone powerful enough to hunt down magical royalty. Naturally, no one’s very forthcoming with their genealogies so you can imagine how difficult it is for me to catch this... this… witch hunter. Not to mention the Seven actively destroys all evidence of the murders to protect the identities of surviving members. But since I’m really good at my job, I managed to figure out that Darlene Ayala was a child of the Seven. Well, sort of. Her dad was a member of the Seven but she did not inherit the gift. She was thirty-three when the witch hunter found her, youngest of her line but older than most of the other victims. I got to her just in time to see him slit her throat.”

Hawkeye looked from each face to the next, clearly waiting for someone to say something.

“And I saw his face," she said, steepling her fingers and resting her elbows on the table.

Another long moment passed as she let her words sink in.

“Well, are you gonna share or are you gonna keep us in suspense?” Adam asked. He didn't follow most of what they'd been talking about, only the gist of it: that someone was hunting the Seven and that she'd seen his face; all else were details that slipped through his mind.

Hawkeye retrieved another object from under the table and slid it across to Adam and Ruixian. It was a photograph: an out of focus image of silver and green streaks, as if the camera had suddenly moved. Adam stared at it for a long time, his head throbbing as he tried to make sense of the picture before him. And when finally it did, he realized that it was a face, a fuzzy but _very familiar_ face. He might have jumped to his feet if he could. Beside him, Ruixian froze in her seat and gasped.

“The face I saw was yours, Adam Thorne.”

Ruixian turned to him, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “The plot thickens.”

 

“You’re joking, right?” Adam scoffed, wanting to fold his arms for emphasis.

“Well, the hair was silver—mind you, not white," Hawkeye paused and lifted a finger for emphasis. " _S_ _ilver_.That’s why I was looking for you in Madripoor.” She held out another piece of paper, this one a perfect pencil sketch of his face, though the hair suggested a lighter color than his own brown. "I only caught a glimpse so I think I deserve some credit for my fearsome artistic skills."

Adam was unimpressed. “If you saw _my_ face, that would have broken the spell’s hold on you and you would have remembered me,” he said.

“Which then leads us to one logical conclusion,” Hawkeye said, standing up.

“Time travel?” Adam asked at the same moment Ruixian excitedly suggested, “Clones?”

“No, idiots,” Kate said as she walked over to their side of the table and sat next to Adam. “You have a twin, _Scarlet Heir_.”

“What?” Adam said impatiently. “What makes _your guess_ more probable than time travel?”

“Or clones,” Ruixian piped in.

“Or clones,” he included magnanimously.

Hawkeye took a deep sigh and said, “Look. I know you haven’t been with the Avengers for a while now, Adam. And Ruixian, poor girl, god knows what this guy has been teaching you. But in real life, things have to make sense.”

“Really?” Adam asked skeptically. “Because I haven’t always found real life to be so coherent.”

“What I’m trying to say is you have to settle for the simplest explanation that agrees with already known facts. Occam’s Razor.”

"Occam's Razor." Adam snorted. “And what facts, pray tell, would those be, Miss I’m-so-Logical?"

“Four facts. Number one: Asgardian and the Witch are the only two beings capable of using Chaos magic. Number two: The Witch gave birth to twins. Number three: Our Adam-look-alike has silver hair. And number four: Guess who else has silver hair. I'll give you a clue if it's too hard: he's quick and he's silver.”

Adam’s eyes grew wide and a sudden pang stabbed through his head. “Quicksilver,” he whispered to Hawkeye’s self-satisfied nodding.

“That’s a flimsy line of reasoning,” Ruixian protested with a scowl.

Hawkeye shrugged. “It’s the most internally consistent explanation we can make that doesn’t have to speculate extra variables like cloning or time travel. Think about it. A pair of twins, both Avengers: one Chaos magic user and a silver-haired speedster. Add the fact that the Witch gave birth to twins and now we have two identical-looking guys running around. And one of them has Chaos magic and the other silver hair? The best explanation that makes sense is that they’re the lost sons of the Witch. It’s the best fit curve without having to extrapolate.”

“I guess,” Ruixian said, still sounding unconvinced. “Did you see the super speed?”

“Admittedly, no. But once we do, that would just about validate the hypothesis,” Hawkeye said. “Do you understand now, Adam? Why I need your help?”

Ruixian crossed her arms and swivelled her chair to face Hawkeye. “I still don’t get it though. If these First Seven families are so powerful, can’t they protect themselves from _one_ little speedster?”

"Given the times? No. Not right now."

"What times? Why not?"

Hawkeye looked at her, taken aback, and then turned back to Adam. “You haven’t told her? Would you like to, Adam? Or should I?”

“Tell me what?” Ruixian asked, her eyes shifting back and forth between Adam and Hawkeye.

Adam twisted to look at her and swallowed; this was one memory that he didn’t forget. “They can’t, Ray,” he said quietly.

“If they’re that strong, why not?”

“Because magic is broken. And it’s broken because I wouldn’t ascend to the Supremacy. Ray, the Seven aren’t strong enough to fight back because of me.”

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Ruixian’s face before she turned her seat away from him and replaced her hands on the table. “I mean, it’s not _really_ your fault, Adam,” she said, immediately schooling her expression into something less transparent. “You have every right. Like you say, nobody should be forced to make sacrifices he doesn’t want to make. There’s a cold brutal logic to that.”

 _Great,_ Adam thought. And then another memory surfaced painfully.  _It’s Singapore all over again._

“It has to be connected,” Hawkeye said. “I’m sorry, this is gonna sound bad. I’m not saying it’s your fault but… your twin killing off the First Seven which had been left unprotected because you won’t take the throne? There _has_ to be a connection. It’s almost poetically circular.”

“Yeah, I think so too. I just can’t put my finger to it. There’s a pattern here we’re not seeing."

 

“So?” Ruixian asked later, as they made their way through the hallways back to his room. Even with him in the chair, she was barely just taller.

“So what?” Adam asked back, more grumpily than he intended. He'd been managing longer stretches of lucidity over the weeks and his thoughts had been more cogent. But the confrontation with Hawkeye had strained him and he was sure that the mild pounding in his head would later blossom to a full migraine.

Behind him, Ruixian rolled her eyes. He didn't see it but he knew.

“Are we gonna help her?”

Adam took a deep breath and sighed. “Look, Ray. I want to. You know I do. She is—was my friend, a long time ago. I don’t remember it perfectly but I do remember how that _felt_.” He paused and swallowed, shaking away the throbbing in his head before continuing, “But… mystics, the First Seven, the Supremacy, my _alleged_ twin brother with the Witch… I—I don’t think I can.”

“I understand,” she said as she placed a hand on his shoulder. The readiness of her response surprised him, as if she'd already known his answer before she’d even asked. “It’s too close.”

Adam nodded, running his hands absently on the metal box in his lap. The imbued magic stirred threateningly at his touch.

“Too close to Chaos magic,” Ruixian said.

Adam twisted in his chair to look at her. “I’m sorry, Ray. I can’t be the hero you want me to be,” he said.

_Stupid, useless, selfish Adam._

“That’s all right.” She leaned to one side of his chair and looked up at him with a grin. “I think I'm hero enough for the both of us.”

“You’ll help Kate?” Adam asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah,” she replied as she straightened up and touched the contact to open the door. “I could call myself… _Neurona_.”

" _Neurona_? Really?" Adam snorted. “Are you starting a country band? How about... _Synapse_?"

"Synapse," she said carefully, testing the word. "I like it! It's a proper superhero name. An _Avenger_ name." She turned to him and twirled, arms pressed tight to her sides and her face flushing as loose-fitting gray overalls billowed up slightly. He'd certainly never seen her do _that_. "You think Hawkeye would let me?" she said, shoulders climbing to her ears and one heel lifting of the ground. "Be an Avenger, I mean?"

It was a challenge to Adam's self-restraint not to make a face. An Avenger? _Ruixian_? After everything SHIELD and their Avengers had done? What they _hadn't_ done? He had definitely never heard her say _that_! Instead, he pulled his lips into a tight smile and said in what he hoped was a light tone, "Don’t even joke about that.”

"Well, why not?" Ruixian made a face and shrugged. “I’ll help Kate. While we’re here, anyway. You know me; where you go, I follow. Besides, who else will eat your overcooked noodles?”

“Hah! Don’t lie. You love ‘em.”

“Oh I am caught in an abusive relationship,” she said with mock gravity, shaking her head slowly. “I just don’t know what’s good anymore. Other noodles are just way too firm and springy now.”

“Nah, you love my noodles,” he said, laughing as she made gagging sounds.

 

She brought him back to his room but didn't stay. He'd insisted that he be alone for the rest of the night and that she let him negotiate his own way out of the chair and back into the bed with his own arms. He needed the exercise anyway, he'd told her, but she didn't leave until he'd promised to ring for help if he needed it.

So he wheeled himself around, working out a good sweat as he paced back and forth in the privacy of his room, where he could wince and pant all he wanted and no one would take pity on him. He liked the way his heart pounded, the rush of blood into his head dispelling somewhat with a surge of endorphins the headache that was already taking root.

Once his arms were tired and he was properly winded, he wheeled himself up to the dressing table and fished out a handheld mirror from one of the drawers. He held the mirror up at an angle and stared at himself. He looked a little wan, skinnier than usual, with dark bags hanging beneath his eyes, but otherwise he seemed healthy enough.

He squinted at his reflection as he pushed his hair back, covering as much of the brown as his hand could cover. Instead, he imagined how he'd look like silver-haired and angled the light so that it reflected off his irises; Pietro had silver hair and blue eyes, after all. His trick with the light didn't turn his eyes blue, of course, but they were silvery enough that he could pretend.

"Is this how you look like?" he asked his own reflection. "Is this you?"

He imagined his brother was the kind who'd smirk a lot so he tried it on.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. And then, after a long pause, he added quietly, "I'm sorry."

If they had found each other before the war, would it have turned out differently? With a brother’s love to protect him, would he still have run away? Would he still have cast that wretched spell that stripped every memory of whoever he had been? They might have become the heroes he'd always dreamed he’d be, in that forgotten life he had had before the Avengers’ wrath crushed him in its pragmatic fist—squeezed him so tight until he was raw and bloody and the only thing left of him was the black oozing mush that called itself Adam Thorne, the distillation of the worst parts of who he had been before: cowardice, self-pity, rage. If every spell came at a price, then this must be the cost of creating Adam Thorne: nothing less but the abandonment of the very self.

He wondered again, if it could have all been avoided. If they had found each other before the war, his brother might not have become a murderer and he might not have become Adam Thorne. They could have been heroes. They could have been Young Avengers.

 _Well, those are two words that haven’t crossed my mind in a long time_ , he thought sleepily.

He smiled at his own reflection one last time and put away the mirror. That night, his exhaustion and headache won, and he slept.

An image had lingered and seeped through his dreams. He was on a mission with the Avengers. A sentinel attack near Utopia. It wasn’t going well. Cap’s body was bent over a boulder, his spine bent at an unnatural angle over the jut of the rock. Mutant corpses in a shallow pool floated around his ankles in a mass grave, as mages and Inhumans fell from the sky and made streaking lines like comets.

Someone grabbed his elbow and spun him around violently. “Get us out of here, Asgardian! Now!” Hawkeye screamed just before a steel rod speared through his open mouth and he melted in a heap of maggots.

Terrified, Asgardian slowly turned his head and saw the sentinel's yellow eye on him. Only it wasn’t a sentinel, no, not really. It had Wolverine’s claws and Ironman’s armor in a tattered Captain America suit. And flying about its forehead like a divine halo was the mighty eagle of SHIELD, sleek and metallic against the blood-red sky. Machine eyes glowed red behind the Ironman mask as its gore-stained hand grabbed for him.

He tried to fly, to run, but the corpses pulled on his legs and dragged him under. The water closed over him, black and viscous, as rotting hands clamped over his limbs, fingers digging viciously into his flesh. He tried to scream. Nothing. Water rushed into his lungs as rotten fingers worked their way into his mouth and pulled it open. Something grabbed his hair, snapping his head back, and as he was forced to look up, he saw the water’s surface, smooth as glass and black as night, and behind it, his own face in a soundless scream... a face contorted in terror amidst a tangle of silver hair, staring back at him with brilliant green eyes.

_Light spilled over him, buzzing, disperse, from a streetlamp that made a conical spotlight on the smooth pathway. Around him was shrubbery of middling height under a blanket of snow and further away, in the darkness, the silhouettes of looming trees scattered around wide clearings. There was the sharp fragrant smell of something flowery that he couldn't identify and of wet grass._

_Billy limped forward, shivering in the cold and barely registering the hand around his wrist._

_“You okay?” Teddy asked._

_“Yeah, I think I was having a nightmare,” Billy slurred. His head was pounding again and thoughts came to him jumbled and fleeting._

_“You were,” Teddy said as he wrapped his arm around Billy’s shoulders. “Just a dream. It’s gone now."_

_"Yeah... Yeah." Billy turned up to him and smiled, “My hero.”_

_He huddled closer to the other boy's warmth and sighed appreciatively. He was... dreaming. What was it about again? He didn't remember and it didn't matter now. Teddy's here. And a deep part of him told him that that was the most important thing right now. An awareness, that this wasn't supposed to happen. A stolen moment from a lost life._

_“Not fair. You don’t even need this,” he said, reaching out to unbutton Teddy’s coat. “Gimme.”_

_“Down, boy.” Teddy chuckled, grabbing Billy's hand and trapping it in his. “You’re drunk, Billy.”_

_“And you’re really hot,” Billy said in all seriousness, deeply convinced that Teddy was wearing too many clothes._

_Teddy snorted. “Smooth.”_

_He grinned and as a halo of light fell around his snow-flecked hair, Billy couldn't help but notice that his face was pink and practically glowing. That face—that outrageously gorgeous face—had a sort of theoretical beauty about it, an absolute symmetry that was almost ideal in its geometry.._ _. such a stupidly beautiful face._

_And it belonged to Teddy, who, in turn, belonged to Billy. And Billy marveled at that thought because even though the memories weren't there and all the universe denied this reality, it was clear in the depths of his heart that Teddy was his and he was Teddy's._

_“Do you live here?” he asked, bringing himself out of his reveries._

_“We’re in France, Bee. Grenoble."_

Bee... that’s what he calls me… _he thought to himself giddily. He liked it._

_Two girls were walking toward them, all wrapped up in heavy-looking winter clothes. They leaned on each other, giggling and holding hands, as they passed Teddy and Billy._

_"Salut!" one of the girls called out to Teddy over her shoulder._

_Teddy waved back with a polite smile and turned back to Billy. The girl blushed as she pressed closer to her friend and giggled again._

_He was wearing his ear cuffs tonight, rows of metal bands climbing up the delicate fold of his ears, and they glittered in the dark like stars. Billy wondered what it’d be like to run his tongue along them, if they would be as warm as his body—or perhaps they'd be cold against Billy's lips and if his tongue would get stuck. That didn’t sound too bad._

_He shook his head and laughed. “I mean here,” he said, missing his temple a couple of times as he tapped on it. "Mr. Congeniality."_

_“Oh. No, I live somewhere else. I’m only here when I’m asleep. Or when you’re here.”_

_Billy frowned. “You come here when you dream? Then how do you know this is real? I could just be a figment of your imagination! I mean have you seen me?” With one hand, he made a sweeping motion over the length of his body and almost slipped on the sleet. “Total dreamboat.”_

_Just then, his stomach heaved as the paella he’d had for dinner decided to defy fate and make a reappearance. He managed to bend over a nearby bush just as he started retching. Somewhere far off, rumbled the sound of the city tram._

_“All right, dreamboat. Take it easy,” Teddy said, stroking his back with a soothing hand. Billy could hear the smile in his voice._

_When he was done spattering sick all over the pavement, Teddy gently tugged on his elbow to draw him up._

_“Someday, you’ll realize the irony in asking me that,” Teddy told him with a grin that crinkled his eyes. His hand slipped down Billy’s arm and dipped to the small of his back, turning him around so they were facing each other. He held Billy against his body and rested his chin on his head. “You’re drunk and you’re freezing. Also, you smell like sick, which is very gross. Think you could take us somewhere warmer?”_

_Billy leaned closer into the other boy's body, shivering as strong hands rubbed against his arms. Just then, he had no thoughts of his own and he was lost in Teddy’s heat; France might turn into tundra and nowhere would be as warm._

_“I’ll try,” he murmured though he didn’t really want to. “How?”_

_"Hmmm...." Billy felt Teddy's chest thrumming against his face. “Think of a memory. There’s one in Santorini—wait, no—the Philippines. A river near a mountain.”_

_He closed his eyes and pictured the mountain in his head, as the requisite equations for teleportation ran in his head. He might have been drunk but magic was second nature to him. A river near a mountain... He rifled through his memories and found it. The image came and went with a flash._

_“S’not working,” he mumbled after a while, not really too disappointed as he pressed his freezing face into the folds of Teddy’s coat._

_“All right, then,” Teddy said. He wrapped his arms around Billy and murmured in a low uncertain voice, “Think of me.”_

_Billy drew himself back for a moment and looked up at Teddy._

_"Oh, you flirt," he said with a grin._

_H_ _e didn't give Teddy a chance to respond. With a sigh, he buried his face deeper against Teddy’s chest and took in a deep breath, inhaling the other boy's scent._

_Memory came to him in a flood: a violent torrent of epiphanies... fragmented feelings and disjointed imageries. His eyes lit up blue and he blinked back with a surprised gasp. The memories inundated him, permeating through every crack and crevice of his mind... until every cell in his body remembered—even if just for a moment—the boy who had once been Teddy._

_“I think I'm drunk,” he whispered, just as the remembrance receded and memory abandoned him once again. "I am drunk on you, Teddy Altman."_

_An image appeared in his head: a yellow sun, beating down hot and humid on a golden field, endless and forever, under a vast sky of cloudless blue. A river hiding just behind the horizon. They were sprinting and he could see the broad back of a tanned Teddy a few feet ahead, deliberately restraining his speed so Billy could keep up. Each footfall slapped against the earth with a dull stinging thud but they were both laughing as their naked bodies hurtled across the field._

_“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Teddy called out over his shoulder as he picked up his pace. “Are you Wiccan or Wiccan’t?”_

_Billy groaned and sped up. He ignored the protests of his lungs and the acidic burn in his thighs. "You are_ so  _lame!"_

_Teddy hooted and turned away, pumping his muscular arms beside him as they ran to the edge of the world._

_Billy thought he could do this forever: Teddy racing before him, fleet-footed and almost flying across the breadth of his golden world. And him, running just paces behind the boy made of memory, heart pounding in his chest as he tried to catch up; his fingers reached forward, eager to touch the boy just out of reach._

I could do this forever _, he thought again, watching and listening to the song of Teddy's laughter. What he'd give to just stay here in this life that had never happened with this boy who had never existed. He smiled to himself and ran faster._

_Then, they reached the edge of the cliff and Teddy leaped in a swan dive._

_“Geronimo!” he yelled as his body buoyed in the air, brown and gold against the blue sky._

_Billy watched Teddy’s muscles gather and strain under the skin of his back, swelling as his body became a rigid T; his arms stretched to the sides like wings unfurling, spine arched in an elegant curve, taut like the bend of a bow. He drifted forward, almost soaring, climbed the sky briefly, and fell headfirst into the river._

_It had been too quick to see anything, just the hard form of his body and the hasty glimpse of a thick cock dangling between his legs as he fell._

_Billy lunged excitedly after him, rapt with the sight of the boy’s grace and forgetful of the fact that he didn’t know how to swim, like every fool besotted by a nymph. He crashed noisily in the water, a squawking tangle of limbs, and made a clumsy waves that splashed Teddy right in the face._

_“You know what would be great right now?” Teddy asked as he grabbed Billy’s arm and helped him break the surface._

_“What?” Billy gasped, waddling in the cool water to find his rhythm._

_“A milkshake.”_

_“You’re right,” Billy said. “In this heat? God. Even strawberry.”_

_He reached out a hand for Teddy and suddenly, too easily and casually like it was something they did normally, they were touching, wet and slick, as Teddy took Billy in his arms. Billy’s cock responded to the naked slide of skin again skin and he had to place his hands on Teddy’s chest, pushing back a little, to keep his hardness from touching the other boy._

_“Do you remember?” Billy asked with a shaky voice, resolutely keeping his eyes fixed on Teddy’s face. Teddy’s chest was smooth and firm against his hand, and a little sticky with sweat. “Do you remember me when you wake up?”_

_“Yes,” Teddy said, blue eyes dilating slightly, like sky giving way to night. When did their faces get so close? His wet hair clung to his forehead and a stray drop of water traced a rivulet down his cheek. “I never forgot.”_

_“I can’t remember you,” Billy admitted with a waterfall of guilt. Like he was ashamed. “I want to but I can’t.”_

_“I know, Bee, I know” Teddy said, leaning closer so their foreheads were touching. “But you remember me right now, right?”_

_Billy closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Teddy. Of earth and sun and something salty and metallic that was only Teddy’s. “A little. It’s fuzzy and a lot of pieces are missing. It helps when I’m reliving the memory. I don’t… I don’t remember you but I remember…” Billy paused, trying to find the right words. “I don’t remember you but I remember how it felt. How it felt to—” he paused again, to search for the right verb, “—to… to_ know _you.”_

_“Yeah?” Teddy’s breath was hot and heavy on Billy’s skin, sweet as mangoes. “How did it feel?_

_“It felt…” Billy said as he opened his eyes. Teddy’s skin was flushed, his pink lips parted slightly. “I don’t remember right now.”_

_“Does this help?”_

_A strong hand—warm, heavy, rough—glided up his back, tracing the dip of his spine with its palm until it cupped the base of his skull and spread its fingers through his hair, eliciting a moan from his throat. A stray thought passed his mind, a final protest from his dwindling sense of self-preservation: a squeeze from Teddy and he could crush Billy’s skull, or a twist and he’d snap his spine. Billy would be dead and he won’t even see it coming; he was naked and defenseless—an oblation to this demigod who was made of the stuff of dreams._

_And yet he knew, to the very last atom of his body, that he was in the safest place in the universe. Right there in Teddy’s arms._

_Billy looked up and saw that Teddy’s eyes were dark and half-lidded. He felt like an overstretched spring, on the brink of yielding to this foreign force and yet struggling with all its might to preserve its shape—though for what inane reason, his mind could no longer justify. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to look down and steal a glance of Teddy’s cock in the crystal clear water, to see if he was also hard._

_“It does. A little,” Billy said, licking his lip, and then in a trembling voice added, “Help me remember.”_

_Another hand slid down his back and cupped his ass, giving it a firm squeeze. “How did it feel, Billy Kaplan? Do you remember how it felt?”_

Do you remember how I felt? _his eyes seemed to ask._

_“It felt…”_

_He sank forward into Teddy’s body and their noses touched. His head spun with thoughts of absurdities._

_An inch of space between their lips. Just air. Just an inch. And yet that inch between their lips was everything. So much distance compressed in an inch. Between Teddy and Billy. Between Truth and Dream. Possibility and Reality. All things blurring together._

_Just an inch. How could there be so much distance in an inch?_

_Between Hope and Surrender._

_Billy Kaplan and Adam Thorne._

_Billy and Teddy… Teddy and Billy…_

_Just an inch between two creatures of memory._

_“It felt um…” Billy swallowed, his lips brushing Teddy’s as he spoke, and the last of his resolve crumbled, all resistance melting away under the golden heat of a summer sun._

_He slid his hands up Teddy’s chest and his arms wrapped around Teddy’s neck, drawing him close to let their bodies finally collide, sighing as his stiffness slid against the hard muscles of Teddy’s stomach. He kept his eyes fixed on Teddy’s face, even as the other man gathered his hair in a loose fist and tugged. Even as Teddy pressed Billy’s groin harder against him. Even as his leg drifted forward in the water and the underside of his thigh brushed against the tip of Teddy’s hard cock._

_They leaned in closer. Lips almost touching now. Just a nudge. Almost. A shared breath in a shared memory. Between a boy who can’t remember and the boy who was memory._

_“Remember me, Billy,” Teddy whispered in a voice faint as a wisp. “Remember me and find me.”_

Adam woke with a gasp, disoriented, blind, and overwhelmed with the coldness of the room. It was an assault that seeped deep through his skin and chilled his flesh. He longed for the sun. For heat and light and air away from this cold dead hole in the ground.

He was naked and his hand was between his legs, fingers already covered with precum and furiously working his hard cock with rapid twisting pulls.

_Heat. Sun. And water, cool on his naked skin. Someone else—Teddy. A naked sky above them._

There was a wild frustration in him that he didn’t immediately comprehend—a crack down his core that split him into contradictory halves, pulled simultaneously in two directions—and that might have startled him if he was not so absolutely consumed by this paramount need. He couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it. How long had it been since he’d pleasured himself? Weeks? Months?

Ice struck bone.

_Heat washed over him and he closed his eyes against the light. A shuddering in his core, then exploding, expanding, sweeping through every nerve and muscle. Stars bloomed behind his eyelids._

“Fuck,” Adam groaned as he crested on the edge.

The room was too cold, like the vacuum of space. His body stretched on the bed—lengthening to its breaking point as his calves began to cramp—and his cock hardened almost painfully in his frenzied grip. His free hand drifted downwards to cradle his balls.

_Water crashing against him as he rutted into Teddy’s abs. Strong arms locked around him. The head of Teddy’s cock digging into the soft flesh behind his balls. A cry tore out of his lips._

His chest heaved out, upwards towards the frigid sky, yearning to untether him from the earth, to fly again.

Back arching, heels digging into the mattress. He closed his eyes and moaned.

_More heat. From sun and sky and flesh. Teddy's sweet breath was thick and heavy on his face and neck. His skin on fire._

_His body slipped downwards. His legs wrapped around Teddy's muscular thighs and their cocks pressed together. They groaned together, breaths mixing in the space between lips._

His weight lifted off the bed and the cold rushed him like a punch to the gut, drawing a violent gasp from his lungs. Magic—Form and Chaos—surged through his muscles as his body curved in the frigid air, a glowing blue crescent that pulsed with each frantic stroke of his hand.

He needed to be touched, and held, and kissed. _Fuck_ , he had never felt so alone.

_Teddy’s hands all over him, claiming every inch of this holy sacrifice. His heat on Billy's body, like a protective cloak—and Billy knew that he was loved... so so loved._

_Their bodies rocked against one another. Back and forth. Back and forth. Cocks grinding, sliding over each other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Oscillating. He was so close._

Magic poured out of his pores, blanketing him in heat, like hands on his skin—almost. Feet flexing. Toes curling. His fingers slippery around his cock.

His eyes fluttered open—blue, electric, powerful—and saw the universe unfolding around him like the pages of a book.

_Too much heat. Wetness lapping his skin. The smell of earth and water and metal. Mangoes against his skin. The splash of waves against rock. Teddy’s warmth saturating him, his golden scent filling Billy's lungs. Billy kept his eyes shut, closed against the onslaught of the senses. All focus on the yearning in his cock, his need reaching a fevered pitch._

An explosion of magic. The air shuddered around him, brilliant, burning, blue. In the distance, the sounds of an alarm blared faintly.

_“I’m here, Billy,” said the golden boy in a hopeless, devastated voice. “Find me. Find me. Find me.”_

Adam threw his head back against the emptiness beneath him and, with a dazed cry on his lips, came all over his chest.

“Teddy!”

_Billy opened his eyes and there was the sun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who took the time to read and to comment! If anyone's interested to beta, just hit me up here or on tumblr. Have a great day! :)
> 
> Next Chapter: Young Avengers!


	4. Young Avengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam deals with post-orgasmic repercussions.

_“You awake?”_

_The wind whistled past him hot and dry and threw his hair about in wild abandon and under him, the cushion was solid and firm and comfortable, vibrating only very slightly and smelling faintly of sun-baked leather and the sour-salt tang of his own sweat._

_"Hey. Wake up."_

_He gave a half-hearted groan, wanting to burrow back into sleep, but he knew that he already was and that this imagined world couldn't hold. So, after a long moment of silence, he turned his head toward the sound and opened his eyes and smiled to himself._

_The first thing he saw was Teddy’s face, gilded in sunlight and almost glaring, hands on the steering wheel and eyes smiling at Billy even behind a pair of aviators. He was in a white tank top and blue jeans and his wrists were covered with leather bracelets and beads. His hair flickered wild like a golden flame, reminding Billy of the first time they’d met in that barley of barley under an infinite sky._

Unbelievable _, Billy thought, a little awed._  How can anything be so beautiful?

_"Hey, sunshine,” he said._

_“Hmm?” Teddy asked distractedly, his eyes watching the road. “What’s that?” There was music playing behind his voice, soft, crooning, but fast-paced; Billy recognized the words but couldn’t remember the name of the song._

_He yawned and stretched, relishing the stretch of cramped muscles and the bite of scorching heat on his skin, and then he reached over to Teddy, letting a sleepy finger touch a cheekbone and trace a careless line down to the chin._

_“Nothing, never mind,” Billy said, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?”_

_He looked around and saw only sand—or hard soil. Hard to tell from the car. But to either side, that was all there was except for the road that seemed to slope downwards and then uphill over and across the horizon. Overhead, white billowing clouds swam in a bright blue atmosphere and cast patches of shade on the ground. His hand reached for the vault of the sky and he felt the wind between his fingers._

_“No idea,” Teddy said, turning down the music. “Somewhere on the Interstate, I guess. We only did this sort of thing once.”_

_“I can see why.” With a grimace, Billy shielded his eyes from the sun, which had been hiding behind a large clot of clouds._

_They drove in silence for a while. He watched the sheer barrenness with uninterested eyes but every now and then, he would glance at Teddy just to make sure he was still there._

You’re real, right?  _Billy thought to himself._ You’re real? And you won’t leave me?

_He reached out again and placed a finger on Teddy’s forearm, grounding himself on the solidness and reality of Teddy’s body._

_“So,” Teddy said in that too casual voice of his. “Who’s Adam?”_

_The name was like a firebrand and Billy’s arm retracted as though it had touched something scalding._

_“How do you know Adam?” he asked, more icily than he had meant._

_Teddy kept his eyes fixed on the road, unreadable behind the dark tint of his shades, but his lips were set in a hard line. He kept his voice steady. “You were sleep-talking."_

_Billy frowned and turned away, glaring at the featureless earth that stretched out to the curved horizon. “It’s nothing. Just a bad dream.”_

_They were quiet again for a while, each patiently waiting for the other to say something more. Billy folded his arms over his chest and let his mood simmer under the sun but in the end, he was the first to break. He twisted back to Teddy, whose knuckles had turned white on the wheel, and immediately felt ashamed._

_“I don’t wanna think about Adam,” Billy said, making his voice as soft and gentle as he could though it still came out a little pissed._

_Teddy was quiet and for a long minute, it seemed like he hadn't heard. “Okay,” he said, finally, breaking the excruciating silence._

_"Don't be jealous," Billy said with a sly smile as he prodded Teddy's ribs._

_"I'm not."_

Great _. Billy felt like shit now._

_But how could he explain Adam to Teddy? Adam who was all darkness and fear and shame. And Teddy who was everything that had ever known bravery and warmth and love. Billy stared at Teddy's face and knew that it was wrong to speak of Adam here. He couldn’t let Adam infect this place, which was everything that Adam had thrown away and could never hope to have again. This place was Teddy’s and Billy’s. Only theirs! Adam didn’t belong here._

_“So, um, where are we going?” he asked meekly, in a bid to change the subject._

_“Wherever we want,” Teddy replied, a pained hardness settling on his voice. “You don’t remember?” he asked, a little gentler, briefly glancing at Billy._

_“No, not really,” Billy admitted. He drew his knees to his chest and chewed on his lip.  “Are we… are we running from something?”_

_The thought disappointed him. It was Adam who ran, not Billy. Out there, in the real world where monsters and heroes were out to kill him. That was Adam’s life. Not Billy’s. Must he run too in this imagined life with Teddy?_

_"You really don't—" Teddy's face was an impassive mask as he turned to Billy again and studied him. And then, having abruptly reached a decision, he grinned. “Nah,” he said. “It’s just… uh... just a vacation. After we found the Scarlet Witch. To… uh… take a break from the Avengers.” He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “We just graduated from Young Avengers to actual Avengers.”_

_“Cool," Billy said, though a cold emptiness had taken root in the hollow of his chest. "Then why do I feel so sad? Like I just lost something important...”_

_“Not all memories are good, Bee,” said Teddy softly._

_Billy nodded, not really understanding. “What’s not good about this one?”_

_“It's because—” Teddy looked away and cleared his throat “—because she had to leave again. To… uh... fix things.”_

_“Okay,” Billy conceded. Teddy was obviously lying but he didn’t want to argue. “Ugh,” he said instead when a familiar series of notes played. "Change the song."_

_“What?” Teddy said in mock outrage, visibly relieved at the change of subject. “Are you insulting my taste in music?_  You, _Kaplan? I will not have this from someone who listens to Wicked songs on repeat.”_

_“Come on, Teddy,” Billy said, flushing slightly. “It’s a sad song. Play something less depressing.”_

_“It’s a happy song,” Teddy insisted. He placed a hand on the dashboard and patted it to make a point. “A fun car song.”_

_The crisp sound of plucked guitar strings filled the air, loud and clear over the rushing wind._

_“How is it happy?”_

_“They’re making plans to run away from a crappy life,” Teddy explained. “In a car, Bee, in a car.”_

_Billy snorted and crossed his arms. “It’s about disenchantment, Teddy. Disappointment and cynicism because life eventually didn’t turn out the way they thought it would be.”_

It's an Adam song _, he might have added but didn't._

_“No way…” Teddy said in a disbelieving tone._

_“They were in a homeless shelter, Tee.”_

_Teddy turned to him with a devastated look on his face, like a child who had just learned that Santa wasn’t real._

_"Don't you listen to the words?" Billy shrugged and arched an eyebrow. “It’s a sad song.”_

_“Really?” Teddy reached for the radio and turned up the volume. “Well let’s turn it into a happy one, then.”_

_Teddy pulled back his aviators over his hair and started nodding his head to the beat, biting his lip expectantly for the chorus. He turned to Billy and winked, blue eyes laughing and cheeks struggling to hold back a smile._

_And despite that unnamed grief in his chest and the cheesiness of it all, Billy rolled his eyes and even managed to smile._

_“So I remember when you were driving,” Teddy sang out, eyes shining merrily. “Driving in your car, speed so fast felt like I was drunk…”_

Oh god, let me just stay here,  _Billy thought as he stared at Teddy. There was a new feeling in his chest, all warm and tingly and fluttery and spreading through his body until he felt like he could weep at the weight of it. It wasn’t memory, not quite, but it was something close and something perhaps more profound._

_“City lights laid out before us and your arm felt nice around my shoulders…”_

_“I love you,” Billy whispered, too soft for Teddy to hear. “Oh god, Teddy, I love you.”_

_He closed his eyes and threw his head back._

_“And IIIIIIIIII,” they screamed out together, Teddy passionately hitting the steering wheel with his imagined drumsticks. “Had a feeling that I belong… and IIIIII had a feeling that I could be someone… be someone…”_

_Billy’s heart thrilled as their happy, out-of-tune voices filled the desert emptiness, his chest overflowing and bursting with joy. Every now and then their eyes would meet and something would pass between them, something that required no further expression than the shared words that spilled from their lips. And for a while, everything was perfect and Billy didn’t care about the Seven or Adam or Chaos for all the world was nothing but light and song._

_…you’ve got a fast car… is it fast enough so we could fly away?_

 

Adam stirred sleepily, groaning as he grabbed for the pathetically thin blanket that had slipped off in the night.

He was spinning slowly, hovering some four feet above the bed, and he might have noticed his predicament sooner had he bothered to open his eyes or more decisively stretched his arm so that his fingers brushed against the ceiling. But oblivious as he was, he simply curled into himself and cursed the cold. He spent a few minutes shivering in a fetal position, groping groggily in vain for a blanket or a pillow or anything to cover himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered to himself and sighed. "I fell asleep."

And that should have terrified him. He should have been in cold sweat, heart racing, hyperventilating, and groaning in self-defeat. He should have been on his feet, fingers spell-ready for anything that might have taken advantage of his lapse in self-discipline.

But instead, he felt oddly content, perhaps too exhausted to appreciate—or to even notice—the danger he was in and, for some reason, he felt happy and sated. Like he had just spent an afternoon lazing under the sun. He smiled stupidly into an imagined pillow and tried to remember the quickly vanishing dream.

He stretched his body, interlaced his fingers over his head and pointed his feet as he yawned, brain still too heavy with sleep to be consciously aware of his spontaneous recovery. Then loudly, to the room, he proclaimed irritably:

“There better  _not_  be some interdimensional abomination chewing on my face when I open my eyes.”

He drew back his knees to his chest and hugged them. “Which I’ll do in five minutes.”

So he tried to sleep again. Only that something in the pit of his stomach nagged at him, a tiny itchy thing that he couldn't quite scratch.

In the end, it was the complete absence of solid pressure against his body that finally tipped him off, followed by the familiar feeling of lightness that made him queasy the moment he’d become aware of it, and then finally, the sharp smell of ozone that burned his nose. Acting on some vague sense of suspicion, his eyes fluttered open, stared blankly at the bedside table floating over his head, and closed again. Then, a long moment later, his brain finally caught up and he startled awake with a squeaky yelp, flailing in the air as he twisted around wildly to find his bearings.

And the sight made him nauseated:

The room was rotating around him and various pieces of furniture and some loose paraphernalia turned and spun in the air. His body was moving too, caught in its own axis of rotation, and every time he passed the ceiling, he was blinded by the sporadically flickering light bulbs.

“Okay, Adam. Relax. Deep breaths,” he told himself. He blinked a few times, willing the blue glow in his eyes to disappear. It didn't work, so he brought his hands in front of him and began a spell. His fingers twitched instinctively, quickly bending to the proper Forms as he whispered the supplementary incantations in a rapid litany.

There was something strange about the magic that suffused the room; his skin felt sticky with it and the surfaces of things had a shiny, slimy sheen. It choked the air and saturated the very fabric of space around him. If he hadn't been so absorbed with trying to unravel the enchantment, he might have noticed the miraculous restoration of his body—or that he was no longer alone in the room.

He must have made three or four complete revolutions in the air before he realized that one thing remained fixed to the ground. And once he sighted it, the figure dragged itself over to him, slowly and jerkily like it was not in full control of its limbs. It took Adam a few seconds to recognize the suit.

“E-Eli?” he said in a stammer as his hands froze in the middle of a particularly tedious dispersal Form which involved the simultaneous manipulation of the pinky and middle fingers. “How are you here?”

He had the same bulky body that Adam remembered but the bearing was all wrong. Even upside down, the difference was obvious: this Eli was too fluid and too limp like a rag doll and the suit, though a perfect replica, didn’t crease with his movements or respect the laws of light. There were no shadows behind the folds of muscle where light could not have penetrated, no deepening shade among patches that faced away from the light; it was like someone had sketched this Patriot on paper, forcefully extruded it, and forgot to teach it the optical laws of three-dimensional space.

A sudden terror gripped Adam as he finally caught on to what stood before him.

_Oh, fuck. What have I done?_

“Who are you?!” he demanded with forced ferocity.

 **Awake, now,**  the creature replied in a voice that seemed to echo inside his head.  **Awake…** It limped forward a one step... two steps... then its hand reached out for him and stopped halfway. Its eyes narrowed into a frown though its mask didn't crease and its head tilted to one side, body following the movement so that it was bent at the waist.  **Who are you?**  

“I am Adam Thorne,” Adam declared. “Now who—”

 **Denial** , the voice hissed in his head.

His spinning body slowly came to a halt just as he was face to face with the thing that looked like Patriot. It withdrew its hand and leaned closer.

“Who are you?” Adam whispered.

**The one you can't escape.**

The red mask was just a few inches from his face now and he could see, where the eyes should have been, swirling galaxies of blue and gold struggling to take solid form, only to fail and fall apart in an amorphous explosion. It made his head hurt to watch the bizarre spectacle.

 **Tick-tock, tick-tock.** The creature leaned back and lolled its head bonelessly from side to side. The colors in its eyes changed from blue and gold to green and silver, which quickly solidified into a more decided and recognizable form: Adam’s own face, frozen in a terrified scream, only with silver hair and a halo of emerald light.  **Save me.**

“Wha—hey!”

It took a step back, lifting a hand as if to wave goodbye, and Adam could only watch as, piece by piece, its body lost opacity and slowly sublimated into white smoke.

As soon as the last bit of the creature had vanished, the blue light in Adam’s eyes fizzled and died. He yelped as his body fell back to the bed, which crashed to the floor with a loud screech. Around him, tables, chairs, and other loose items fell from the air and were swiftly reacquainted with gravity. There was a short cacophony of thuds as wood and metal struck the floor and objects made of glass shattered. In the distance, an ear-splitting alarm shrieked incessantly.

With a loud, violent thump, the door flung itself open, banging against the wall. A small group of armed men in gray poured in, Ruixian at the head of the incursion.

Adam barely had time to collect his wits and drag the blanket to cover his nakedness and to hide the flakes of dried cum on his chest.

 

He was quiet as they marched out into the corridor but his thoughts were a swirling mess, turning rapidly through his brain with a vengeance to make up for weeks of idleness. Heaviest on his mind was the Patriot imposter, which had the unmistakable stench of Chaos magic all over it— _his_ Chaos magic.

Adam gritted his teeth and made a frustrated rumbling sound at the back of his throat as they turned into another corridor. How could he have been so careless? How could he let something like this happen _again_? Just then, he felt a strong urge to scream into a pillow or to punch a wall or himself.

If the two women flanking him noticed him fidgeting, they didn’t let it show; they marched forward, eyes set forward with professional indifference.

 _Fuck this!_  he thought to himself. _Enough with the pity party! Just get up and fix it!_

He clenched his jaw, drew the hood over his head, and kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

A few feet in front of him, a man with a black beanie was talking to Ruixian; they were muttering in low voices, heads bent over what looked like an iPad and casting the occasional furtive glance at him. Whatever it was that they were plotting, they clearly didn’t think him reliable enough to be part of it; perhaps they still thought him an invalid.

But he was walking again— _God_ , it felt so good to feel his muscles stretch and contract under his own volition again—and when he checked, his fingers flexed and pointed nimbly at his sides. He was in control of his own body, no longer defenseless, and for that he was glad. He couldn’t understand  _how_ , of course, and that was also a problem, perhaps as important as the enigma of the vanishing Patriot. But right now, he wasn't going to question it too much.

He almost walked into one of Kate's cronies when they stepped inside what looked like a surveillance room. Only there did he realize that except for the blanket that he had wrapped around his waist and the tattered red robe that was more rags than anything, he was still naked.

The man in the beanie turned on his heels to face the entourage. “You two,” he said, pointing to one man and one woman in front of the group. “Secure Asgardian’s room. The rest, sweep the base again. Report back in fifteen. Dismissed.”

Six men and women executed a crisp salute and left.

“The cameras picked him up,” Ruixian said, sitting on the edge of the table to face Adam. “He was in your room for four hours.”

“ _Four_ hours?” he repeated incredulously. “What was he doing?”

“Watching you sleep,” she said, gesturing a command at the man, who had taken the controls.

He pushed a series of keys and one of the monitors mounted on the wall quickly rewound.

“Wait! Wait! Stop!” Adam lunged at the man, suddenly remembering all the hot, sticky mischief of the previous night. The man reached for another button and the image on the screen froze. “You let Kate install cameras in my room?!”

“It’s a security measure,” Ruixian said matter-of-factly. “Which, in hindsight, was the right call.”

“You could have told me!” Adam protested.

“I did!" she insisted. "Every day, when you asked about them.”

Above him, beanie-man snorted. “They didn’t watch you have a go at yourself if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said quietly so that only Adam could hear him. “No one here wants to see that.”

Adam almost didn’t recognize him with his blond crop covered up. But up close like this, with his body draped over the man’s lap, there was no mistaking the face. “Ah, Ted,” Adam said as he extricated himself and retreated a few steps back. “The nurse."

Ted's eye twitched. “Also Hawkeye's second-in-command, acting base commander, _and_  last night's unfortunate sentry,” he said with an unamused look on his face, gesturing at the monitors on the wall. He had an Australian accent, a detail that had escaped Adam for the past few weeks. “I saw everything, mate.  _Heard_ everything.”

Adam’s eyes grew wide at the implication and his imagination churned at what Ted must be thinking… seeing this strange, paralyzed mage hover in the air as he pleasured himself, and then hearing said pervert cry out his name in ecstasy, with such mystical ejaculatory force that it ripped open the fabric of reality, summoned a Lovecraftian horror and temporarily deactivated the laws of gravity…

That wasn’t what had happened, of course; he wasn’t dreaming of Ted. It was someone else.

 _Teddy_.

The sound of the name in his mind sent a shiver through him, scattering all other thoughts. Then, a jolt of pain in his head. Like something with claws had quickly reached inside and seized the name.

An uncomfortable silence fell over them as Ted stared Adam down. Adam, on his end, had tuned out everything else when he’d retreated into his own thoughts. His eyes flicked up and met Ted’s and he drew his cloak tighter around his slight frame, as though to further hide his nakedness, heat pooling in his face as he turned a deep scarlet.

“Ah, well, look, Ted, I—”

The other man held up a hand and swiftly shook his head. “Look, mate. Ju-just don’t mention it, aight? Really, just don’t. Let’s just forget about it.”

Adam brought a hand to his neck and ducked his head. “Yeah, good call.”

“I’m glad your hands and legs are all better. You can shower on your own now,” Ted said, turning away and back to the screens.

“Yes, yes, we’re all very fascinated and happy,” said Ruixian, sounding anything but. “But forget the tape for now. We couldn’t get in, Asgardian. What the hell happened in there?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head to dispel the lingering embarrassment. He didn't miss how she called him by his codename but he filed that for a later conversation; for now, he told them everything he could remember from the moment he had woken up.

“Adam,” Ruixian said carefully. “Do you think—”

She stopped herself midway when she saw the look on Adam’s face.

He turned away in shame and anger. "I don't know," he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I mean it’s Chaos magic. I’m sure of that. But… But it feels different. Not like Mother.”

“Different how?”

“When I—when I brought Mother here, there was a price. The bulk of my powers to keep her in this universe. Even though I didn’t want to cast the damn spell, there was price and I paid it while she was here. But this time, nothing. I don’t know; it’s weird.”

“I thought Chaos magic has no price?” Ted interjected. “That’s what Hawkeye told us.”

“All magic comes at a price,” Adam said grimly. “Even Chaos.  _Especially_ Chaos. The universe just has a more dramatic way of charging.”

“Are you sure about this?” Ruixian asked. “Don’t…”

She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. _Don’t blame yourself_ , she had wanted to say but couldn’t. Because she couldn’t deny that the blame was his.

And he knew that self-pity wouldn’t help. But what else could Adam do? It wasn’t like people  _chose_ to feel guilty.

“Positive,” he replied with a brusque nod. “And that’s what scares me most about this. This is very…  _unnatural_.”

“And all this?” Ruixian held one of his hands in hers and he felt the short surge of an electric field as she quickly studied his body. She let it drop and frowned. “This is impossible. You’re all healed now.”

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t magic, I swear.”

“ _Completely_ healed. Parts of your brain  _died_ , Adam,” Ruixian said, in equal measures of softness and urgency. “That’s not something I can fix. So I’d like to understand how this happened.”

He looked at her and, for the first time, took in the obvious exhaustion manifested in her appearance. There were no dark circles under her eyes or even a slight sickly pallor—all these things her powers and vanity would suppress—but it was clear in the way her eyelids drooped just so slightly and how her shoulders slumped forward that she had been carrying an enormous weight on her back.

“I’m not too concerned about that right now,” Adam lied. He turned away again and stared at the wall for a long moment, his jaw set and his face inscrutable. “Jeez. Where’s Kate anyway?”

“Away. There’s a… situation,” Ruixian said cautiously. “An Avenger situation.”

“Share.”

Ted and Ruixian exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them for a long second. Then, Ted turned back to the computer with a shrug as Ruixian gave Adam a lookover. “Are you  _sure_ you’re okay now?” she asked, concern etched deep in her face.

“Ugh!” Adam exclaimed irritably. “Ray, I just found out that I might have a secret twin-turned-assassin. And there’s a cosmic monstrosity running around in my friend’s old suit. Thanks to me. So don’t ask me if I’m okay, dammit. I have no choice but to  _be_ okay.”

“You were out for two months, Adam,” she said delicately. “I tried everything! We all tried everything so fucking hard. Jacob even sent in a mystic healer at some point but nothing worked. We couldn’t fix you, Adam. We thought you were done for good!”

He tried to hold on to his rage but before the helpless look on his friend's face and the broken sound of her voice, it melted away into gratitude and shame for being such a burden. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end; they were supposed to be living a new life now, away from all this insanity. Instead, they had been dragged back, beaten and bloodied, into the Avengers’ heroic world.

“Whatever happened to Glasgow?” he asked softly.

“Glasgow can wait. The world comes first”

Adam smiled. “The world, eh? Is that what Hawkeye’s up to? Another global cataclysm to avert?”

Ruixian returned the smile and gave him a brusque nod. “Something big is happening, Adam,” she said, quickly turning grave. “Has been for a few months now.”

“Is that what everyone had been tiptoeing around? I might have had brain damage, Ray, but I wasn’t actually brain dead. I knew something was going down.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Kate couldn’t tell us much—what with the whole not being Avengers thing—but from what she could spare us, we know that it’s pretty big. And then last night—” she broke off and took a deep breath.

“What? What happened?”

“The Inhuman monarchy has fallen, Adam.”

 

Adam stared at her, dumbstruck, unsure of whether he’d heard her right. “Fallen?” he repeated dumbly.

She nodded emphatically, looking relieved at having said it out loud.

“There was an attack on New Attilan.”

“It wasn’t an attack,” Ted said, swiveling his chair. “We don’t know for sure, Asgardian.” He had a perturbed look in his eyes like he was on the verge of hysteria.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Adam asked.

“They all… they all…” His blue eyes had turned wide and glassy and the space around him rippled like a mirage.

“They all just fell sick,” Ruixian said, placing a comforting hand on the Inhuman’s shoulder.

“All of them,” Ted added. He seemed to have calmed down at her touch—his voice, anyway; his eyes still had a wildness to them and his left leg was shaking. “At the same time.”

“Wait,” Adam said. He brought the heel of his palm to his forehead and pressed, trying to physically wrench out the memory. “They all fell  _sick_?”

“One after the other,” Ruixian said. “Within a span of three months.”

The hair on Adam’s neck stood on end. “Oh my god,” he whispered, a cold sweat breaking on his skin. “She warned me.”

“Who? Kate?”

“No, Maria.” He looked up abruptly to meet her eyes. “We have to go after Kate.”

“No, we can’t,” Ted said immediately. “The intruder takes priority. Hawkeye’s orders.”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand,” Adam said desperately. “She tried to warn me. And I… Oh my god. Everyone’s going to die. I have to tell Kate.”

He turned away from the two and took a step toward the door. There was a rustle behind him and he was prepared to strike Ted down with a quick spell but it was Ruixian’s small body that had rushed to block the door.

“Adam, wait,” she said, hand outstretched to push him back. “We can’t go.”

“Why the hell not?”

“There are Avengers there.”

“So what? Maybe it’s time I settle this with them once and for all.”

She shook her head. “No. What I mean is there are _already_ Avengers there. We’re not going to be that much more help. Tell you what, I’ll have Ted explain to Kate that this is bigger than just the Inhumans but  _here_ is where we’re most useful.”

“It’s an end of the world thing, Ray. They can—”

“Manage without our help. They do this sort of thing twice a week, Adam,” she said. “That’s their jurisdiction and responsibility. This Fake-triot thing, however…”

She dangled the word in front of him, knowing full well how to pull his strings.

“I see Hawkeye has been teaching you,” he said acidly. He turned to Ted and asked pointedly, “Anything more to add on the  _Fake-triot_ side?”

“Just one more thing, Asgardian,” said Ted, swiveling back to the controls and pressing a series of buttons. “The cameras went offline for exactly twelve seconds just before things, uh, got weird,” he said with a blush. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I didn’t think much of it at first. Thought it was just another glitch.”

“ _Another_ glitch?” Adam’s left eye twitched.

Ted shrugged. “It happens now and then, mate. Once a month.”

“That is a serious design flaw.”

“I’ve sent Hawkeye multiple reports.”

“Okay, well get it fixed. I—”

“Whatever!” Ruixian interrupted pointedly, waving an agitated arm in Adam’s direction. “No one could have done  _this_  in twelve seconds. Not possible! Not even magic!” Her eyes darted toward Adam and then she added, sounding a little unsure, “Right?”

“Right,” Adam said as he considered the logistics of such a spell. “Healing magic is incredibly delicate; it'll take a skilled mage a few hours to cast a Formal spell to rewire nerves. Not to mention it’s so exorbitant that casting it for someone else is downright stupid.”

“And you don’t exactly have a lot of friends,” Ruixian said, bringing a hand to her chin. “So we’ve got opportunity but lack motive and means,” she added, more to herself than anyone else. She was quiet for a while, brows puckered in thought, and then her head flicked up to meet him in the eye. “You said  _Formal_  spell. What about Chaos?”

“On my body?” Adam said haughtily, tilting his chin up. “I’d know.”

Ruixian arched a skeptical eyebrow and crossed her arms.

“Believe me, Ray, if another Chaos mage walked the earth, I’d feel it; the _whole world_  would feel it.”

“Then let’s table that for now,” she said hastily, waving an impatient hand. “Let’s focus on our intruder.”

“We’ve only got one obvious lead on that one,” Ted said.

“Yeah.” Ruixian nodded.

Adam looked blankly from one face to another. “We do?” And when he finally caught on, he clenched his jaw and headed for the door. “Let me change into something less comfortable.”

And when he finally caught on, he clenched his jaw and headed for the door. “Let me change into something less comfortable.”

 

He took his time in the shower, relishing the use of his hands and carefully scrubbing the mess on his chest. The sight of it made him blush a little and filled him with a confused fondness.

 _Teddy_ ,  _Teddy, Teddy_. Adam whispered the name to himself over and over under the hot water. Yet it was already slipping from his mind; later he would write it down on a piece of paper.

Adam whispered the name to himself over and over under the hot water. Yet it was already slipping from his mind; later, he would write it down on a piece of paper.

Not Ted.  _Teddy_. His breath fogged up the glass wall.

The water was warm on his skin. Just the right pressure too. The spray felt nice on his face.

 _Teddy,_ he thought to himself again, defiant of the ache that pulsed in his brain with each hallowed syllable.

The sound of it was familiar, in the same frustrating way as a  _déjà vu._ Or a song stuck in his head with a title he couldn’t remember. But he did know that it was important. Essential. There was something more. Teddy was real. Or had once been real. Or the echo of something that  _was_  real. Or the echo of something that  _had once been_  real. Adam’s mind reeled at the permutation of possibilities.

Ghost, memory, dream. Adam wasn’t sure which. But he knew that, imagined or not, Teddy was the key.

_You know my name, Teddy, even when I don’t. And that should scare me... But it doesn’t. It’s safe with you; I just know it._

And Adam couldn’t even recall the boy’s face.

 _Remember me and find me_ , Teddy had said. Those were the only words that Adam could remember and the rest was just dizzying flashes of blue and gold. The attempt to peel away at the memory and peer deeper made his head throb.

 _Am I going insane?_ His mind drifted briefly toward the Witch.

With a sudden shake of his head, he dispelled the poisoned thought before it could take root. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead on an arm against the wall.

_Who are you, Teddy?_

The thought washed over him as he watched the soapy water swirl down the drain.

_What happened to you?_

High up in the air, Adam leaned up and pressed his face against the ship’s window, straining his eyes to make out the communes of Chamonix scattered around the corrugation of the mighty Aiguilles Rouges. Squinting, he could just about distinguish the general body of the village from the surrounding snow; from up high, buildings were small stubby structures that popped out of the white earth like tiny mushrooms, quartered and clustered by narrow winding veins that could only be roads. The white-blue ribbons of a frozen river spilled eagerly from the base of Montblanc, the northern face of the mountain range, and weaved its way through the village like a slender serpent, providing just about the only distinction to the otherwise slate-like panorama.

Adam turned away as a gale of hail and snow collided against the window, coating the glass with a thick layer of crushed ice and making it difficult to mark out the individual communes that made up the village—not that he could have identified them by name anyway; it was just something to occupy himself.

He sauntered back to the cockpit and, with a loud thump, plopped down in his chair. He took out the box that Jacob had given him and very delicately, as though it were made of glass and not metal, ran his hands over the smooth surface.

With a quick flourish of his hands, he executed a convoluted series of Forms and the protective spell around the box reacted immediately. It jabbed his palms with needle-sharp pinpricks in clear warning:  _Probe no further_.

Adam frowned at the unexpected resistance.

He turned the spelled object in hands and with short pulses of his own magic, closely examined every inch of its six faces. He searched for blind spots and overlooked joints, any neglected crevice that he could pry open with a quickly executed spell, and found none; the spellwork was impeccable and the composition so incredibly abstruse and pedantic that some Forms—perhaps a quarter—were unfamiliar to him. To _him_! Adam Throne, Mage of the Highest Order and Heir Supreme! As a mage, he couldn’t help but admire the workmanship and technique; this was obviously done by a master, who had studied Formal magic with the discipline of a scholar.

He tried just about every Seeing Form he knew and felt like he was back again in Strange’s Sanctum Sanctorum.

It had been in the aftermath of the war so many years ago... just two years before he became Adam Thorne. In exchange for Stark's pardon, he had surrendered himself to the old Sorcerer Supreme who had quickly assumed responsibility for his education ins the Forms of Antiquity. 

Working now on this spell-protected box, Adam couldn't help but think of the old mage under whose tutelage he had become a master of Formal magic. He remembered now a particular day, when he'd found himself kneeling in the center of a dusty room, surrounded by teetering towers of piled books and floating candelabras, rhythmically bobbing up and down in the high ceilings and casting moving shadows on the hardwood floor. The air had a bizarre tepid warmth—a temperature that was in thermal equilibrium with the skin—and had the thick smell of oil, incense, and rat piss.

“Here is a classical Cartesian fractal,” Strange had been saying. He was manipulating his fingers over the glowing artifact, wiggling them quickly and deftly like he was simply controlling a puppet with invisible strings. “Variegated with a second-order Claudius-Ptolemaique differential. And then altogether arranged in a Penrose tessellation.” Then, Strange was withdrawing his hands, taking the glow with them. The statuette reoriented itself and settled back on the podium. 

He cast a quick spell— _psychological: Degradation of the Phonological Loop—_ and Adam forgot the words that had just been said.

“Now you try.”

Adam frowned at the abstract-looking piece of rock as he carefully maneuvered his fingers and hands to create the right sequence of Classical Forms that Strange had just demonstrated. “Pattern is a classical Cartesian fractal… Modification is a differential type, Claudius-Ptolemaique, uh, second-order… Arrangement is a tessellation in a-a Penrose.” He was much slower than the Sorcerer Supreme and his movements were jerky. But at least, he was getting the job done so that's progress.

“Any variation to the Penrose?”

Adam’s frown deepened and a bead of sweat trickled to the tip of his nose. He could feel his eyes starting to glow. “Uh, y-yes?”

“It is a physical impossibility for the Penrose tessellation to have any variation. It’s basic geometry, apprentice,” Strange said with an indulgent smile. “Do you mind if I call you apprentice? I've always wanted one.”

“I think I prefer ‘padawan’.”

Strange made a noise and shook his head in disapproval. “I think not.”

The sight tugged a smirk out of Adam’s lips. He wasn’t the only one frustrated.  _Good_.

“Do the analysis again.”

“The spellform is too advanced for me,” Adam protested even as he repeated the Forms, trying to mimic Strange’s confident snapping movements with his own stiff fingers. “Why does magic have so much  _math?_ ”

“Because, little mage, the universe is written in mathematics. Finger spells are the quickest type of Formal magic because they emulate the fundamental mathematics that makes up the cosmic DNA. You can’t expect to cast ritual spells on the battlefield, can you? Now listen—” Strange called him by a different name but it was a blank in his memory now, like a glitch in a video “—that was only the first layer of the spellform. Show me which Forms you would use to study the second layer… Yes, good, you have accounted for the Penrose. Very elegant solution. Now, superimposed on the first layer, if you—”  _thwack!_ A wooden stick cracked against his knuckles “— _No, no_ , not like that! Use the complement of Sigil 27e: ring finger to thumb of  _other_ hand, all else—Yes! yes, very good, just like that—Now if you look closely, there is a superimposed Okazaki fractal to secure the Cartesian fractal of the first layer in a complementary fit. See how it’s mounted anti-parallel and then very tastefully secured with a temporal lag? That’s really clever engineering. The mounting makes it very hard to disentangle. And very vogue during the Ptolemaic Antiquity. So how would you dismantle—”

“Hey, Adam?” Ruixian’s voice broke his reverie.

“Huh?” he asked, blinking back.

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, a little uncertainly. “Why?”

“Your eyes are glowing.”

“Oh.” He brought a hand to his face and saw the blue light reflecting off his palm. “I didn’t even feel it,” he said as he rubbed his eyes.

He turned back to the box and gave his head a vigorous shake, as if to clear away the cobwebs of memory. He redoubled his efforts, skimming and prodding the spellform for any sign of exploitable flaws with controlled bursts of magic. 

Yet, the box prevailed. It parried every variation in his probing spells with humiliating ease and with an increasing hostility that forced him to drop it at some point, when a particularly nasty riposte bit the meat under his thumb and drew blood.

“Aw, fuck.” He kicked the box petulantly and yelped when it retaliated with a sharp jolt up his leg.

“Just what is in that box?” Ruixian asked from the captain’s seat. From the way her voice pitched, he could tell that the question had been exasperating her for a while now.

“The usual things from Jacob,” Adam said immediately. “Just some files and personal things.”

And the location of someone who had information on the  _Ars Notoria_.

“Right,” she said as she reached for the enviable mug of coffee that only she had the foresight to bring. She had been nursing it for the past two hours now, using her powers to keep it warm

“Are we there yet?” he asked irritably, addressing no one in particular as he replaced the metal box in his cloak. Once again, when his fingers brushed the surface, there was that fleeting sensation of familiar magic.

“For the third time, yes,” replied Ruixian with a touch of asperity, not letting her attention wander from the steering wheel. “Prepare for landing.”

The ship lurched as they entered an air pocket, spilling some of her coffee on the floor. With a curse under her breath, she reached over the array of blinking lights and spinning gauges, pressed a few buttons, and flicked some switches. The ship shuddered beneath them for a few seconds and then stabilized into an almost imperceptible descent.

“Why do you know how to fly a plane?”

“Hawkeye taught me.”

“I mean  _why_ do you know how to fly a plane?”

A small smile played on her lips. “Like you said this morning: Hawkeye’s been training me.”

“That’s great,” he said, turning away from her and staring at the milky cloud cover obscuring the windshield. “Just great.”

“It’s for you, Adam,” she explained.

“Okay.”

“I told you, right? We thought you were a goner. Jacob and Kate wanted to put you in Chamonix but I knew that you wouldn’t want that so I convinced them that I’d take care of you instead. Jacob didn’t agree of course... but Kate somehow... overruled him? I don’t know; she can be really scary sometimes. But anyway she agreed with me, on the condition that I pick up a few skills so that I could take care of you.”

“What kind of skills?

“A few. Just enough to take care of you.”

Adam couldn’t help but snort at that. He rolled his eyes and smiled, feeling a little nasty.

“What?” Ruixian asked as she pushed a lever and flipped a switch.

“Come on, Ray, let’s not kid ourselves here. You had her teach you these  _skills_ because you want to be a superhero. And you used your disabled friend to do it,” he said, waving her off when she started to protest. “No, no, I’m not mad or anything. I’m actually quite impressed with your… resourcefulness.”

“Well, when you say it like that…” she said begrudgingly.

Adam smiled to himself, feeling triumphant.

“This is nice,” she said in that forcedly amiable high-pitched voice of hers. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, watching the elements batter the windshield. “It’s like a road trip. But, you know, on a plane.”

With a hum, Adam nodded to himself and even though the ship’s interior was thermoregulated, a shiver rippled through his body.

“On the way to confront Kate’s ex,” she went on, taking a sip of coffee and giving him a sidelong glance over the rim of her mug. “Who may or may not have been turned into an eldritch monstrosity.”

Adam had actually forgotten that Eli and Kate had had a thing. But now that the fact had been mentioned in his hearing, that piece of lost memory broke through the shackles of his spell and resurfaced with a slight stabbing pain in his head. “Ow,” he murmured, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He wondered if every recovered memory would be like this, so violently and excruciatingly yanked to the front of his mind with such spiteful insistence. He turned back to Ruixian and said, groaning, “Are we there yet?”

Just then, the ship broke through the cloud cover. The scene outside shifted abruptly from the white tundra of the French Alps to the eternal summer of the climate-controlled estate of Sanctuaire Chamonix. The skies had turned to a clear, blinding blue, with wispy patches of undulating clouds for miles and miles unto the edge of the horizon, and the grounds were a verdant wash of rippling grass and rolling meadows, interspersed with pockets of forestry and shimmering pools of cobalt lakes. Adam could just about see the mansion’s grounds nestled in the center of a thick forest cut precisely in a perfect square. Farther off, beyond the estate proper and almost touching the horizon, was an immense lake dotted with brown structures along its perimeter. There were small vessels cutting across its surface, making sharp lines of white against its dark blue waters.

They landed some miles from the forest surrounding the manor, on a small grass clearing where a stark white limousine was already waiting for them. With a final push of a button, Ruixian lowered the ramp and Adam shuddered at the sudden warmth seeping through his skin and the soft breeze ruffling his hair. It wasn’t exactly  _warm_  but the air had the chill taken out of it—probably by another Stark machinery—and smelled very strongly of freshly cut grass and something artificial and flowery not unlike an air freshener.

The driver stepped out of the limo as soon as their feet made contact with the grass and Adam immediately unclipped his cloak as he stepped in front of Ruixian.

“ _Bienvenue_ , Mademoiselle Synapse,” the smiling man said to Ruixian with a slight accent that Adam couldn't place. He was young, olive-skinned, and very handsome, with the kind of body that would have normally made Adam stare. “And you must be Monsieur Asgardian. ”

“ _C’est nous_ ,” Ruixian said easily, gathering her hair in a ponytail. “But Synapse and Asgardian would do.”

Adam turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

“Skills,” she said with a shrug, trying hard to feign humility. “What? I got bored. What did you think Kate’s been teaching me?”

“Not French, for sure.”

She smiled and turned away from him.

“I am Sami, your guide for the duration of your visit to the Sanctuaire,” the smiling man said. “Mademoiselle, monsieur, if you’d please.” He gestured his hand at a small empty crate in front of him. “Your weapons.”

“Must we, Sami?” Ruixian asked in a lilting voice. “We are friends of Hawkeye.”

“This is a peaceful place, mademoiselle," Sami replied, looking genuinely apologetic. "All weapons must be left behind in your ship.”

With a sigh she took out a pistol, twirled it in her forefinger, and dropped it in the box.

Adam’s jaw dropped. “What the hell,  _Synapse_?”

She cocked her head and shrugged again.

“Your weapons, monsieur,” Sami said with polite insistence, gently shaking the box in front of him.

“I don’t carry weapons,” Adam said.

“The knife in the left pocket of your cloak, monsieur,” the guide said, unperturbed by Adam’s hostile tone. “If you forgot.”

Adam made a face but surrendered the knife anyway.

“The cape too.”

“The cape is a shield, not a weapon. That’s allowed, _n’est-ce pas_?”

Sami shook his head in such a forlorn manner that Adam half-expected him to begin his response with 'Alas!'. 

“ _Mais non_ , monsieur… For the peace of mind of the citizens of the Sanctuaire, I cannot permit you the cloak. They might wonder if there’s anything that might… require a shield. We must not worry them unnecessarily, _non_?” He stared at Adam for a long moment, with an air of immovable patience that would brook no argument.

Adam closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Then, he unclipped the cloak and dropped it in the crate. “ _Voila. Vous êtes content_?”

“ _Merci_ , monsieur,” smiling Sami said.

“Then come on,” Ruixian said from the side. “ _Allons-y_.”

“ _Un moment_ , mademoiselle.” Sami took out two small red boxes from inside his white coat. “A gift,” he said. He passed one box to Adam and the other to Ruixian. “From the Sanctuaire.”

He watched them expectantly, smiling patiently. After exchanging a brief look, Adam and Ruixan opened the velvety boxes. Inside Adam’s were a bracelet and a matching necklace with a thin silvery chain and a circular pendant. He had to admit: they were crafted with such preoccupation to looking fashionable that they almost succeeded at hiding their true nature.

Ruixian was the first to react, too naïve and too trusting, even after everything that she had been through. “Pretty," she murmured. "What's this fo—” The chain slipped through her fingers and she stood there, frozen on the spot and visibly shaking, as the necklace fell to the grass.

Adam advanced quickly on the man and grabbed him by the lapel of his white shirt. “A suppression collar?!” Power surged through his arms and smiling Sami, who was a good inch or two taller than him, lifted off the ground.

Ruixian was immediately on his side, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “Put our guide down, Asgardian,” she said meaningfully.

“Monsieur,” Sami said, looking down at him with bright hazel eyes, calm and unruffled as if Adam wasn’t prepared tear out his spine. “You are guests of the Sanctuaire Chamonix. We did not force nor request your presence here and we have not denied you entry. But despite our hospitality, we have rules. Rules that you must follow, should you so decide to step foot on our home.”

Slowly, he lifted a hand to his shirt’s neckline and pulled, revealing a thin metallic chain that was similar to the one he had given Adam. “No weapons.”

Adam pushed the man away and sneered. “You would collar yourself, mutant?”

“I am Inhuman, monsieur,” Sami said placidly, smoothening the front of his shirt. He flicked a piece of lint from his shoulder and added, “But it works all the same.”

“I am not wearing a suppression collar,” Adam said through gritted teeth.

“Then I regretfully ask your party to leave the Sanctuaire,” smiling Sami said.

“Asgardian,” Ruixian said mildly.

Adam turned to her and glared. “No."

“You think I don’t understand? Me, of all people? We have no choice, Asgardian. If we want to see Eli,” she said quietly, with a soft look on her face. “It’s not fair to the people who live here. This is  _their_ home and we're guests.”

Adam curled his upper lip. “Fine,” he said eventually. He quickly put on the necklace and took out the bracelet from the box. “What’s this one for?” he asked with a hard edge to his voice, not bothering to look at the Inhuman.

“It’s a quantum scrambler, monsieur, to—”

“To disrupt the mathematical order of fingerspells. Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Mademoiselle Synapse will stay on the ship,” Adam said as he locked the bracelet’s clasp.

“No,” she said immediately. “She’s going.”

Before Adam could snap, Ruixian shot him a look and shook her head. “I’m going,” she insisted.

“You don’t have to.”

“She does,” Sami interjected politely. “She can’t stay on Sanctuaire grounds if she won’t surrender her weapons.”

“She will—”

“Enough!” Ruixian snapped. “Stop talking about me in the third person. I’m right here and I’ll make my own decisions. And I’m going, Asgardian. I just—” She bent down to reach for the necklace and froze again, her trembling hand halfway to the ground.

“Let me,” Adam said gently as he snatched the chain and hid it in his fist. “Here.” He offered it to Ruixian, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I-I… would you h-help…”

“Of course.”

He stepped behind her and let the necklace swing free between his fingers. Patiently, like they had all the time in the world, he stood still, watching and waiting for an indication that she was ready.

“Okay,” she said, taking quick shallow breaths through her mouth and lifting her ponytail. “Okay, do it.” She tilted her chin up and closed her eyes just as Adam swiftly brought the necklace around her throat and secured the clasp.

“There,” Adam said, squeezing her shoulders. “You feel okay?”

“Yes,” Ruixian said, a little surprised. “It’s not like—not like…”

She was quiet for a while, feeling the thin chain between her fingers as she swallowed something in the back of her throat.

It was Sami who eventually broke the silence, with a slight look of impatience to get things moving. “The suppressor is inactive, mademoiselle,” he explained. “Mr. Stark designed it so that it only activates when the wearer attempts to use superhuman abilities. And even then, you wouldn’t feel it.” He raised an open hand in front of him and quickly collapsed it into a fist. Except for a sudden breeze that messed the coif of his hair and a cloud that blocked the sun, nothing remarkable happened. “There is also no locking mechanism. You could, in theory, take it off in the event of a crisis. Of course, it goes without saying that frivolous removal of the suppressor would result in swift and immediate expulsion from the Sanctuaire.”

“What’s that?” Adam asked suspiciously, cocking his head to detect the faint buzzing sound that was almost drowned out by the rustle of rippling grass and leaves.

“That, monsieur, is the pendant doing its work,” smiling Sami said. “If it had not, your ship would have melted into puddle.” Spreading his arms gracefully, he directed their eyes to the many pools of liquid that dotted the landscape behind him. “Welcome to Sanctuaire Chamonix. Safest place on Earth.”

 

The limousine was spacious and comfortable albeit a little incongruous to the prelapsarian naturalism that the Sanctuaire was going for. Adam and Ruixian watched the synthetic Eden crawl past them as Sami rattled off about the history of the Sanctuaire, its amenities, and its notable citizens.

Even inside the car, Adam could smell the cloying sweetness that perfumed the estate. And though the quantum scrambler hung heavy on his wrist blocking all mystical forms of sensing, he couldn’t help but feel a little unnerved by the sheer artificiality of the place; even the very branches of the trees swayed so stiffly in the wind that they looked as if they were made of plastic.

But there were people milling about and that relieved the uncanniness to some degree. Most were in pairs: plenty of couples holding hands and some in hospital gowns, accompanied by nurses or therapists. A few solitaries wandered the grounds, with pained and wistful looks on their faces, but there were also groups of screeching children playing tag between the foothills. Some of them, the bigger ones especially, climbed trees and took turns pushing each other down the hills. The sight brought a small smile to Adam’s lips until he saw the suppressor collars around their necks glinting radiantly like knives to their throats.

It was well past noon—Moldova-time, at least—when they finally reached the mansion’s gates, if the despicable roaring of Adam’s stomach could be trusted. Smiling Sami took them straight to the guesthouse, a modest two-story brownstone decorated with trellises, vines, and a four-tiered fountain in the center of a roundabout. There were gazebos and benches on the manicured lawn but aside from the fastidiously conserved flora, the house exhibited no other signs of life.

Inside were sprawling rooms and corridors all done up in hardwood and richly decorated with rugs, portraits, crystal chandeliers, and more sweet-smelling plants. Smiling Sami took them right away to the living room, where a bountiful spread of cheeses, bread, and cold meats had already been prepared on the coffee table, accompanied on the side by a few bottles of wine, red, white, and even sweet.

Ruixian let out a low whistle as she picked up a  _Moscato_ from the ice bucket.

“The Sanctuaire inherited nearly half of the Stark fortune,” Smiling Sami said, with a tone so delicate it somehow managed to convey modesty, gratitude, and grief simultaneously. “We are very fortunate.”

 _God,_ the guy really got on Adam’s nerves. “Least Stark could do,” he grumbled.

“Mademoiselle, would Hawkeye be joining us in the Sanctuaire?” asked Smiling Sami, eye twitching as he pretended not to have heard Adam’s remark.

“Yes,” Ruixian said. She walked over to the table and grabbed a plate. “As soon as she can. Tomorrow, maybe.” She sat down on the sofa and began piling meats on her plate.

“Splendid,” their host said through a tight-lipped smile, watching her with narrowed eyes. He spread his arms again and bowed. “Please, mademoiselle, monsieur, enjoy the hospitality of the Sanctuaire Chamonix. If you have need of anything, just pick up the phone and someone in the mansion would assist you. I have other things to attend to at the moment but I will meet you again in the morning. In the meantime, you have freedom of the grounds.”

Without waiting for their response, he turned and made for the door.

“Wait!” Adam said, grabbing his arm as he passed. “Can we see Eli now?”

Smiling Sami frowned at the hand on his arm and Adam quickly released his grip. Then, he made a show of looking at his wristwatch and turned back to Adam with an apologetic smile. “It is past visiting hours, Asgardian. Monsieur Bradley would see you tomorrow morning.”

“It’s an emergency,” Adam said in a hard voice.

“My apologies, monsieur,” Smiling Sami said in a voice just as hard. “If we had known you were coming..." He paused and let the insult hang for a moment. "Well, perhaps next time you could come earlier.”

With that, he took another bow and left.

 

They stayed in the living room until about seven-thirty, gorging on cheese and meat, followed almost immediately by a small feast of tartares of beef and salmon, snails, some sour-tasting salad, and a whole suckling pig roasted and dripping with gravy, all washed down with an assortment of wine that all tasted the same to Adam.

They passed the time genially, gossiping about the other residents of the Roost and even telling jokes—as if they weren’t in one of Stark’s PR-friendly prisons, in the middle of a frozen wasteland, collared and made powerless. Even in death, the man still managed to annoy Adam.

At some point they fell to leaning against each other, legs sprawled out on the floor as they sat against the sofa’s legs, giggling at tales of Ted’s awkwardness. They even took turns doing impressions of Kate, an activity that conjured a feeling of mild terror in Adam and made him glance occasionally at the door.

They were very good at this, he realized. They excelled at burying their heads in the sand and pretending that nothing was wrong. If she were doing all this for his sake, then she played her part well; there were even moments when it felt like they were back in Madripoor. Only this time, Adam noticed that she wasn’t even trying to match him glass for glass. She kept looking out the window, as if distracted and drawn to something calling out to her.

When the last of the evening sun finally died out ( _God,_ Adam thought,  _even the fucking light looks fake_ ), Ruixian stood up and walked to the door, swaying uneasily on her feet. “I’m going out for a walk,” she said over her shoulder, smiling and lying so easily. “You gonna be all right here on your own?”

He could have said that he wanted to go with her. Or that it was too dangerous to go out alone. Or that he knew what she was really up to. He would have, if this were still Madripoor and if she were still the girl that she had been in their garden city. It had only been three months since but already, it felt it had all happened to someone else, in another life.

So instead, Adam lolled back his head on the sofa’s cushion and waved her off with a grin, pretending to be drunker than he trully was. Still smiling, he watched her amble out the door and felt like she had already gone a long time ago.

 

When Adam walked into the kitchen the next morning, Kate was already there, muttering something to Ruixian in a voice too low for him to hear. They were seated across each other, heads bent over a plate of toast pieces between them. Off to the side, closer to the backdoor, was Sami, standing patiently and wearing that winning smile as always.

Adam saw Kate’s eyes flick to him as soon as he stepped through the door and she immediately broke off whatever she had been saying to Ruixian. She swiveled in her chair and crossed her legs. “Oh, hey you,” she said, giving him a quick scan. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Adam said coldly, giving Sami a curt nod. He walked up to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice. He didn’t bother with a glass; instead, he pulled off the plastic cap and took a swig. The cool liquid poured down his throat and he sighed with a relish. “What are you two talking about? Not interrupting something, am I, Hawkeye?”

“Nothing, just catching up,” Kate said innocently.

“What’s the news from New York?”

“Pretty bad. I’m expecting a call to Assemble any day now.” She glanced over at Sami and added, “But let’s not talk about that right now.”

“Adam, you slept?” Ruixian asked, sounding a little surprised as she daintily tore off the crust from a slice of toast.

“Like a rock,” he said. He took a chair between them and picked at her shed crust. “I reckoned I’ve already ripped the fabric of reality for one cosmic horror to pass through, what’s another one? And there has to be a quota for this sort of thing, right?”

“Wow,” Ruixian said skeptically. “You’re being very cavalier about this.”

Adam shrugged as he dangled the piece between his fingers and took a crunchy bite. “So  _qu’est-ce qu’on fait aujourd’hui_? What’s the plan  _du jour_?”

The sun was streaming in through the window to his left, sharp and unforgivingly bright, and the kitchen had the floral scent of being freshly scrubbed. Not the same saccharine smell that saturated the outdoors but just as noxious. Adam wondered how the residents of the Sanctuaire could stomach the way things smelled around here. Perhaps they simply got used to it. Perhaps  _he_ smelled strange and unbearable to them.

“I think ‘ _pour la journée’_  works better if we’re mixing languages,” Kate said. “But whichever way you want to say it, the plan of the day is Eli.”

“Sami said he’ll take us this morning,” Ruixian supplied and turned to their host with an inquisitive look.

“Alas, mademoiselle—" _Alas? Really?_ Adam thought. _What a douche_ "—I cannot,” the man said, looking the very image of tragedy. “You can—”

“Why not?” Kate demanded. “This is official Avenger business.”

“I understand, mademoiselle, but—”

“ _Avenger_. Like your benefactor.”

Sami smiled again as his shoulders rose and fell in exasperation. “If you’d let me finish, Hawkeye... Monsieur Bradley attended a little…  _soirée_ last night and he won’t be up until lunch. I would take you to him then.”

“You would take us to him, now,” Hawkeye said fiercely, rising to her feet and picking up her bag as if the matter had already been settled.

Sami looked scandalized. “But mademoiselle!” he said, his perfectly amiable mask broken for the first time. “ _Il s’en—_ He’s asleep!”

“ _Je m'en fou_. I want to see him,” Hawkeye glared at Adam and Ruixian and they immediately got on their feet. “ _Now_.”

Adam couldn’t help but smirk as the defeated man’s face crumpled impressively into something that was half-grimace and half-smile. Sami bowed and led them out the door in trudging steps.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Ruixian asked, reaching out instinctively with her fingers. There was a moment of forgetfulness when she touched Eli’s head, followed immediately by the faint buzzing of her suppressor. “Oh. Right,” she said with a start, hand flying to her throat.

Adam gave her shoulder a light squeeze and then turned to Kate, who was standing on the other side of the bed. She had been staring quietly at Eli since they’d entered his room, chewing distractedly on her bottom lip as if in deep thought. She had that look on her face… that look that she used to have—that  _he_ used to have—when they had been younger and the world had been kinder and full of heroes. He couldn’t really name it. What? Hope? The desire to make things better? He didn’t know now.

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” Adam asked in an attempt to pull draw out of whatever Hawkeye thoughts churning in her head.

“Seven years,” Kate said without tearing her eyes off Eli’s sleeping face. “You?”

“Nine. Just after the war.”

Nine years? Had it really been that long? Nine years since the imprisonment and demise of more than half the superhero community. Seven years since the Sons of the Serpents. Seven years since he became Adam Thorne. He suddenly felt so old and so tired _._

“Huh. Do you mean that time we put him there?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess so.”

“Are we terrible friends?” she asked, brows knitting together as she finally looked up.

Adam couldn’t have given her a truthful answer. Because the truth was a messy thing all tangled up with excuses and rationalizing that distorted it into something that would have made an Avenger wince, gesture around vaguely, and say words like ‘complicated’ or ‘gray’. The truth was that everything had become so complicated after the war. They all had to choose sides and those who had chosen wrong had gone into hiding. 

Between saving the world and saving themselves from it, who had the luxury to visit fallen friends? At least that was  _his_ excuse, which he knew couldn’t be applied to Kate, who had been welcomed back by the Avengers and had the freedom and resources to visit Chamonix anytime she wanted.

It was Ruixian who spoke next, with a question that Adam dreaded answering. “What happened to him?” She picked up the chart hanging at the foot of Eli’s bed and flipped through. “This kind of damage… Was he a mage too?”

Adam looked her in the eye and slowly shook his head. “Ray… Eli, he—he was—”

“He took MGH,” Kate finished for him. "For years."

There was a loud clatter as Ruixian dropped the chart on the floor. Without another word, she quickly turned on her heels and fled the room.

“No. Let her go,” Kate said when Adam took a step after her. “No time for all that right now. We have a job to do. Search the room for his old costume.”

He watched the door close behind Ruixian and, with only a slight grumble, acquiesced to Kate’s orders.

They started with the drawers and cabinets, searching for anything that might connect Eli to the Faketriot, and found only sets of identical white overalls hanging neatly and some balled up socks and soft slippers. One of the drawers was labeled ‘Personal’ so Adam shied away from it. Kate, on the other hand, gently pushed him aside with a soft _tsk_ and shamelessly rifled through Eli’s affairs and again found nothing. 

Eventually, they moved on to less conventional and more deliberate hiding places: nooks behind curtain rods, loose tiles, and under cushions. It helped that the room was only sparsely furnished, even more minimal than Adam’s room in the Roost; some ten minutes later, just as Kate was about to tear open the mattress with a fork, he found the old costume folded in a cardboard box tucked under the bed, cleverly pushed against the wall so that you wouldn't notice it unless you were purposefully searching.

“It wasn’t Eli,” she concluded immediately as Adam stuffed the old uniform back in. “Or this costume.”

“How do you know?”

“There's a clear perimeter of dust on the floor around the box, which means it hasn't been moved in a while. And the box itself is dusty, which means it hasn’t been opened in a while either.”

“Then what’s our next move?” Adam asked as he gathered the papers that Ruixian had spilled on the floor and clipped them back onto the plastic board.

Kate huffed a sigh and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know,” she said, bringing a hand to her eyes. “But we just wasted two days here.”

Adam’s eyes fell on the name of the attending physician. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I have a feeling we’re on the right track.”

“What makes you think so?” Her voice sounded so tired.

He replaced the chart on the railing and traced the name with his finger. “Just a hunch.”

It read:  _Dr. Dorothy Talman._

 

For lunch, Sami brought them to the cafeteria where he had directed Ruixian to wait. It was a somber room, smaller than Adam was expecting, and filled mostly with hospital staff; he looked around, as was his habit in his years of exile, and saw only one other group of visitors who were sitting by the large windows. There was a short line for the food, which was not as over the top as the dinner that they had had in the guesthouse (though Adam thought they could have done without the wine selection).

Smiling Sami, master of small talk, was back on host mode, insistent that meals ought be social affairs. He explained and bored them with details of the hospital’s history and its advancements in medical research, seemingly oblivious to the fact that nobody was listening to him.

When they were done, he walked them back to the lobby where a dark-haired man was sitting behind a desk, face hidden by a tall computer screen.

“Nurse, has Monsieur Bradley woken yet?” Sami asked.

“ _Un moment_ ,” the nurse replied with a raised finger. He peered over the top of his screen, revealing brown eyes and a mop of black hair, and retreated immediately to his chair, quickly punching in a series of commands on his keyboard. “Uh… _il s’est reveillé_ ,” he said in poorly accented French. “Would you like to see him now?”

“ _S’il vous plaît_.”

“This was scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Our guests are insistent.”

“Oh?” The nurse heaved a sigh. “Please wait in Room 26B.”

“Could he receive visitors tomorrow as well?” Sami asked.

Adam frowned and turned to Kate. Were they staying another day? She shrugged.

“Y-yes,” the nurse said in a funny voice. He glanced at them again over the screen and scowled disapprovingly.

“We will wait in 26B,” Sami said with finality. “ _Merci_.”

That wait lasted for nearly an hour, which they spent hardly talking except to declare whenever anyone had need of the restroom. Kate was on her iPad the whole time, alternating between reading an Avenger report and playing Candy Crush, while Adam had ensconced himself on the carpeted floor and meditated. Ruixian was especially quiet; she had taken a chair some distance from Adam and Kate and had shrunk into herself, legs crossed and arms folded tight across her chest, adamantly impenetrable to Sami’s attempts to draw her out and coax her into conversation.

At about three o’clock, the door opened and a figured entered the room. Adam’s eyes flicked readily to a glare, prepared to berate the nurse for making them wait so long.

Only it was neither the nurse nor Eli who came through the door. It was a young blonde woman, lithe and tall, wearing a loose-fitting blue chemise and black leggings. She had a slightly disheveled look about her, as if she had just woken up and had rushed to get here.

Sami was quickly on his feet. “ _Que’est-ce que c’est_?” he demanded. “Why are you here, mademoiselle?”

“Uh, the nurse asked me to come today,” the woman said meekly.

“The  _nurse_?!” Sami asked, outraged.

Adam almost didn’t recognize her with her hair cut grown out so long. He rose slowly from his chair, staring at her in shock. “Cassie?”

She turned to him and frowned. “Who are—”

She staggered back a few steps just as Adam’s hands flew to his head. “Aw, fuck,” he muttered as a mild throbbing slowly deepened into a full-blown migraine. The spell was fought vehemently to keep itself from falling apart and the violence of the struggle, though not as severe as that first time with Kate, still jolted his bones and pounded against his skull.

When the searing pain finally passed, he found himself crumpled on the floor, looking up at Ruixian’s blurred face.

“Adam?” Cassie asked.

He twisted to look at her and saw that she had turned pale, propped up on the floor by Sami and Kate.

“Cassie,” was all he could manage as he struggled to get to his feet.

“What’s happening?” she asked, looking dazed. “I—”

The door opened again and in came Eli in a wheelchair, pushed forward by the dark-haired nurse wearing a facemask to cover his mouth and nose. Eli’s head was tipped forward and his eyes were open, staring unseeingly at the floor; drool trickled down one side of his mouth.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sami demanded. He rose to his feet and went up to the nurse. “Why is she here today? Explain yourself!”

“I’m sorry, I still suck at this,” the nurse said, though he was looking at Cassie and Kate instead of Sami. “But we don’t have time.”

“Nurse!” Sami shouted. “ _Repondez-moi_!”

“I’ve made a grave miscalculation,” the nurse said, still ignoring the livid Inhuman. He took off his facemask and turned to Adam.

“We have to go  _now_ , Asgardian,” Nate said urgently.

 

Adam stared at him for a long moment, dumbstruck and speechless. His first thought was that Nate looked small, followed immediately by the realization that the boy hadn’t aged since the day he had driven a sword through Kang’s chest.

“Did you hear me?” Nate said as he shoved Sami off him. “I said we have to go. No time. Chop-chop. Come on.”

Ruixian was immediately at Adam’s side. “What’s happening?” she asked, instinctively clinging to his sleeve.

“I don’t know,” he said, careful not to take his eyes off Nate. He took a step forward and placed himself between Ruixian and the boy who would be Kang. “But I don’t like it. That there is Kang the Conqueror.”

“Iron Lad,” Nate said, looking hurt. “Please, we don’t have—”

“Baby Kang,” Kate said more decisively. She helped Cassie stand up, supporting her with an arm around the waist. “What are you doing here?”

“What else? Saving the world, of course!” he said with a faltering grin, glancing back at Cassie. “Please, we have to go. They weren't supposed to make their move until tomorrow.”

“Who?” Kate demanded. “What’s—”

Then there was a loud explosion and the everything was heat and smoke and dust. The ceiling had collapsed.

With a loud curse, Kate flung Cassie in Adam’s direction and leapt away from the falling debris. She landed on her feet, combat-ready, some distance from the heap of rubble that separated them from Nate, Eli, and Sami.

“Cassie!” Nate shouted from the other side, through a thick wall of rock and dust clouds.

“I’m okay, Nate!” Cassie shouted back. “I—I—”

“What the  _fuck_ is going on?!” Sami snapped, then began cursing in French too quick for Adam to understand.

Orderlies fell through the hole in the ceiling and stalked toward them, all wielding knives.

“We’ll meet you at front gates, Iron Lad!” Hawkeye called out as she kicked an orderly and sent it crashing into two others. “Take care of Sami and Eli!”

Then, without a second word, she turned on her heels and dragged the rest of them through the door and out the corridor.

“That way!” Cassie said, pointing to the right. Behind them, there was another explosion followed immediately by Sami's ear-splitting shriek.

Distracted, Adam almost didn’t notice the nurse waiting for them just outside the door. Hawkeye elbowed him to the side just as the woman in pink overalls slashed at him with a scalpel. With a kick to the side of the knee followed by a punch to the jaw, Hawkeye swiftly pinned her down and knocked her unconscious.

“Thanks but I—”

“Let’s go,” Hawkeye said, grabbing Cassie and running to the direction she had pointed.

“Here,” Cassie said, pointing weakly at the fire exit. Behind, the corridor swelled with frenzied nurses and patients running after them.

“Go, go, go!” Hawkeye shouted over their pursuers’ shrieks as she shoved them forward.

With a grunt, she slammed the door behind them and quickly secured the bolts. Adam could hear indignant wails and loud thuds as bodies flung themselves against the locked door.

“What the fuck?!” he said as the metal frame slowly pocked and dented. “Is this a freaking zombie apocalypse?!”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Hawkeye muttered. “We’re only on the fourth floor. Come on.”

They wound their way through the emergency shaft carefully, taking turns with helping Cassie down. Above them, the hysterical banging of flesh against metal never ceased.

Just as they rounded on the last flight of stairs, two men appeared behind the corner and rushed up to meet them. Adam took a step forward but before he could even respond, Ruixian was already slipping past him, planting the heel of her palm into the solar plexus of one of the men and driving him back down the stairs. Then, she quickly ripped off her collar and slammed her hand on the other man’s face. “Sleep!” she cried as she pushed him back. The man fell down bonelessly, eyes already closed.

“Thank you, Hawkeye, Synapse,” Adam said acerbically as he rushed down to meet a third man. He let his body move instinctively, allowing it to form the poses that had been taught to him.

He slammed himself sideways into the man’s torso. “But I—” His wrists were loose but sure, parrying the man’s attacks, “—can take care—” his elbows engaged and quick, delivering most of his blows“—of myself!” Then, his elbows and palms struck out. Six rapid strikes in barely a second: arm, throat, rib, rib, arm, nose. The man fell down, bleeding and struggling for air.

Asgardian finished the sequence with an obnoxious pose.

“Kung Fu?” Hawkeye asked as she stepped over their fallen attacker, turning back to give him an amused smile.

“Why not? It keeps the hands free for finger spells,” Asgardian said, somewhat defensively.

“And really?  _Synapse_? Asgardian suggested that name, didn’t he?”

They were running down the stairs now and there was no one following or running up to challenge them. Synapse had Cassie’s arm slung over her shoulder, face deep in concentration as she worked on accelerating her recovery.

They burst out the door and found themselves on the northern side of the hospital. In the distance was the tree line of the surrounding forest and before was a small army of doctors, nurses and patients, all holding scalpels, syringes, and even drip stands for weapons.

“Shit,” Hawkeye muttered, as she reached to her back for the gun that wasn’t there.

“I fucking knew it,” Asgardian said, as he threw away his bracelet. “Leave your weapons behind, he said.” His hands and fingers flexed immediately, crafting the Forms in quick snaps. “It will be safe, he said.” With a final thrust, he swept his arms in front of him and heaved a mighty exhale. But instead of the windstorm that should have blown off the throng, he felt the spell fizzle in his hands and a brisk but ultimately harmless breeze confronted them instead. 

“What the…” he muttered, staring at his impotent hands in disbelief.

Then something huge shot out from above him, extending to one side of the mob and then sweeping it to the other side with one slide of a giant hand.

“Ugh!” Stature groaned out in a deep voice, as she shrank down and fell to her knees. Most of her clothes had been reduced to tatters, enough of it that Asgardian felt he had to look away. “I haven’t done that in a while.”

He took off his shirt and passed it over.

“Come on,” Synapse said as she draped it over Cassie’s shoulders. “We’re almost there.”

They ran around the building and to the foyer, where Iron Lad was already in his suit, hovering in front of Eli and a stunned Sami and blasting at the rabid group pouring out of the hospital entrance.

“We’re here!” Asgardian cried out. He tore the collar off his neck and sent a bolt of lightning to the three men who had managed to slip through Iron Lad’s attacks.

Iron Lad turned his head toward them, metal mask creasing into a frown when he saw Asgardian’s half-naked body leading the charge. “Are you going to teleport us out?”

“I—” Asgardian made the Forms experimentally and felt the magic sputter and fall apart. “No, I don’t think so. My magic’s down.”

“I got it,” Hawkeye said. She took a small black object out of her pocket and pressed, looking at the sky expectantly. “Oh, shit!” she said. “Guys, stand your ground for a minute!”

The four of them fell to a shield formation in front of Sami, Eli, and Cassie. Synapse and Hawkeye took the first line of defense, supported by Iron Lad and Asgardian a few paces behind.

More attackers spilled out of the front doors, some crawling out of the windows and others piling in from the side wings of the hospital, each frothing at the mouth and brandishing some makeshift weapon.

“Holy fuck,” Synapse muttered in front of him, as she adopted a basic combat stance.

Asgardian extended an arm forward and over her shoulder, aiming his palm at the thickest knot in the gathering mass. “Don’t worry,” he said, unleashing forked streaks of lightning. “I got you.”

The air burned with the scent of ozone and chlorine as his lightning and Iron Lad’s plasma blasts ripped through the crowd, devastating large swaths in quick intermittent bursts. Synapse and Hawkeye quickly took down what few that managed to slip through.

Somehow, Asgardian managed to hold out for a few minutes before he was panting. Synapse's movements too had become sluggish at that point and Hawkeye and Iron Lad were taking on more and more of the onslaught.

Just as he thought he would pass out, a shadow fell around them as Hawkeye’s ship materialized a few yards above, generating neither sound nor wind. She pointed the transmitter at the hospital gate, away from the advancing horde, and the ship followed the motion and landed.

“Go, go, go!” she cried out as everyone else ran for the lowering ramp.

She and Iron Lad stayed behind to cover the retreat, with Iron Lad taking out as many attackers as he could with his blast guns and Hawkeye shielding him from those that trickled through. She was deadly even without her guns, Asgardian noted as he climbed up the ship, but she was still taking some blows whenever too many men got through at once.

“We’re clear!” he shouted at them once Eli and Cassie had been carried up to the cabin. He turned and saw that Ruixian was already at the controls, quickly executing an elaborate sequence of button-pressing, switch-flicking, and lever-pulling. There was a soft vibration under his feet and the ramp began to close.

“And we’re off!” Iron Lad shouted as he dove to grab Hawkeye by the armpits. In one smooth arc, he flew for the ship, slipped through the closing gap of the ramp, and landed on the deck, just behind the captain's chair.

“Thanks,” Hawkeye said when Iron Lad finally put her down. “Synapse, you got this?”

“Yeah,” Synapse replied, giving her a thumbs up over the shoulder.

The ship started climbing and Asgardian swayed uneasily on his feet, falling wearily onto one of the cabin chairs. He let his face fall in his palms as he caught his breath.

 

“That man back there,” Synapse said, once they were safely out of Sanctuaire airspace. “In the stairwell. When I used my powers on him… He felt… strange.”

“Strange, how?” Iron Lad asked. He took off his mask, revealing that disturbingly young face of his.

“His body… I don’t know, it felt wrong. Like it was  _changed_. In a cellular level.”

“We have to go to the rest of the Avengers,” Hawkeye said instantly. “Set a course for New—”

“No,” Iron Lad insisted. “The speedster comes first.”

“My ship, my rules!” Hawkeye snapped. “And how do you know about the speedster?”

In his exhaustion, Adam tuned them out. He looked around him and considered their little party for the first time: an Avenger-wannabe mutant runaway on the wheel... an actual Avenger arguing with a time-traveling future despot who was also an ex-Avenger... two more ex-Avengers lying semi-comatose on the floor... and a shell-shocked Inhuman staring blankly at the ship’s metal ceiling as he clutched desperately at the suppression collar on his neck.

Oh, and how could he forget the impossible mutant-mage who was also an ex-Avenger, Heir Supreme, and wielder of Chaos? And… and now they were on their way to find the lost child of two dead Avengers who might also be his—what? soul-parents? or maybe they’d go to New York to join forces with the actual Avengers… And what about the cosmic abomination running around in Eli’s old suit? What now? Who fucking knew what to do now?

He laughed hysterically at the hopelessness of it all, loud and unrestrained until tears filled his eyes and his body shook with tremors. 

“Hey guys,” he managed to say in between sobs. “Look!” He spread his arms dramatically, trailing his eyes from Iron Lad and Hawkeye in the cockpit to Eli and Cassie unconscious on the cabin floor. “The mighty Young Avengers, reunited!”

He threw his head back and laughed again, tears streaming down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced is Fast Cars by Tracy Chapman.
> 
> As always, thank you to those who took the time to read; you guys are such lovely folks! 
> 
> Bon nouvel ans chinois a tous! (Happy Chinese New Year to all!)


	5. Teddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Avengers reunite and a plan is made. In the world of memory, dream gives way to waking.

A frosty quiet spilled over the French Alps. A half-moon, in its lofty seat in the sky, hid behind in a veil of wispy clouds and turned its face away. There might have been a wind—certainly no snow or hail, for the sky was sparse with clouds—but the ship’s interior was warm and comfortable, though the mood was just as gloomy.

The deck had been refashioned into something of a war room. A central round section of the floor had been elevated by four sliding rods to make a table and ten rounded stools had been similarly raised. Of these ten, six were presently occupied. Their seventh—Eli—was in a cot, immobile and oblivious, and drooling quietly in his sleep. At least he _seemed_ asleep.

“Did you find anything?” Hawkeye was asking Synapse, as they shared a large mug of coffee between them.

Synapse slowly shook her head and placed her hands on the table. “Very little. For the most part, the Sanctuaire was just a refuge. There were some signs of internal politics and that general air of creepiness we all felt but I didn't find anything outright sinister.”

“Did you manage to infiltrate the Main House?”

“Yes.”

There was a soft rustle to her side as Sami stirred at the mention of his beloved Sanctuaire. He was slumped over the table, head buried in his arms like an ostrich hiding its head in the ground, and when he turned to look at her, his face was the very picture of abject misery. “You broke in the Main House?” he croaked out, bloodshot eyes peering through disheveled hair as he rolled the thin chain of his suppression collar between his fingers. There was still the trace of that affected smile on his face, which had become less irritating and more pitiful.

“We’re way past that now, Sami.” Synapse smiled at him gently. Carefully, she placed a hand on his shoulder, no doubt to calm him with her powers, before turning back to Hawkeye. “What’s our next move?”

And didn’t that just stab Adam in the fucking chest... Why was she asking _Hawkeye_ for directions? When did they become a team? And when did Adam get cut off?

The Avenger sighed and pressed her fingers against her temples, rubbing deep circles into the flesh. For a moment, she looked painfully exhausted, shoulders slouching forward and hair falling over her face. Then, something in her hardened and she was looking up again, eyes bright and sharp. “I don’t know," she said. "I think we should head to New York. Kang thinks we should look for the speedster.” She paused and flicked her eyes to Adam. “What do you think, Asgardian?” she asked, almost pleadingly.

“Faketriot,” Adam said without missing a beat.

“Of course. Let’s not forget _that_ little problem. But we’re being pulled in three directions here. Unless we split up—”

“No!” Adam and Iron Lad exclaimed together, the latter actually slamming a fist on the table.

“No, of course not. Because of reasons,” Hawkeye said with another sigh. She picked up the mug and swallowed a big gulp.

“Yes, reasons, very good ones,” Iron Lad said from across the table, with a resolute hardness to his face. He had an arm wrapped protectively around Cassie, who seemed to have been somewhat restored if still a little pale. It unnerved Adam to see that the boy had remained so young and unchanged, especially when juxtaposed to Cassie, who now had more than five years on him. “I might be able to shed some light on your Fauxtriot problem.”

“Faketriot,” Synapse insisted.

Iron Lad rolled his eyes. “Whatever it is, it’s a foreign entity.”

“We already know that,” Synapse said.

Beside her, Adam brought his hands to a slow clap as he levelled a look of pure disdain at Iron Lad.

“I don’t think you do,” the boy said, frowning quizzically at Adam’s open hostility. “You think you let it in, don’t you?”

Adam crossed his arms and held his glare.

“Well, you didn’t. It appeared over twenty-five years ago. It was just waiting.”

“Twenty-five years?” Cassie asked weakly. “That’s about as old as us.”

“Yup.” Iron Lad nodded excitedly, searching the faces around the table as if to look for approval. “Well, you guys anyway. To be more exact, as old as you.” He fixed Adam an unwavering stare. “To the date.”

“Wait. Are you saying that Faketriot’s the speedster?” Hawkeye asked.

“No, no, no.” Iron Lad shook his head emphatically. “He’s a… well, the answer to that question is long and sad.” He glanced back at Adam, his brown eyes suddenly soft and full of sympathy, and then looked around the table again. “Shall I?”

Everyone stared blankly back at him, even Cassie, who twisted her head to look at him with distrustful eyes. Then, they turned to each other to share looks of uncertainty. This was Nathaniel Richards, after all. Iron Lad. The boy fated to become Kang the Conqueror.

When the silence finally strained too much, it was Hawkeye who cleared her throat and shrugged. “We’re not obligated to believe you but what the hell. Give it a shot.”

Iron Lad grinned. “Good enough.” He made a gesture with his hands and his metal gloves parted and fell to the table with a loud hiss.

“Geez, relax!” he yelped, holding up his hands as he stared down the barrel of Hawkeye’s gun, so quickly drawn that Adam didn’t even realize she'd made a move. “My hands were starting to sweat!”

“Don’t—” Hawkeye began, closing her eyes and heaving an exasperated exhale. “Don’t make any sudden movement.” She withdrew her hand and replaced the gun under the table.

“Kate,” Synapse said with a disapproving shake of her head.

“What?” Hawkeye blinked innocently but her voice carried the tone of a challenge. She turned back to Iron lad and said, “Sorry. Now, _please_ , continue.”

“R-right,” Iron Lad muttered, giving her a sidelong glance. “Well, really, the story begins with the Witch.”

“The _Scarlet_ Witch?” Sami asked, perking up.

“Yes, the very same. One of the most powerful mages of her time and then the only user of Chaos magic.” Here, he levelled Adam another stare. “A heroine and an Avenger until she betrayed the Avengers, killing half her team and nearly razing Manhattan to the ground. That was about… fifteen years ago, I think? It was a dark day for the Avengers and the rest of the world.”

“And then she vanished. Everyone was looking for her,” Synapse said, giving Adam a careful glance. “Some still are.”

“A hero turned villain, you’d think people would want to know why. Everyone wanted to bring her to justice, of course—or to exact vengeance of some kind because these days those two things are practically the same thing. But few cared enough to know what happened to her or to even wonder how someone who had spent her entire life risking herself to protect people turned to killing thousands. That was the question, wasn't it? Why did the Scarlet Witch wage war on the Avengers?”

“She went insane,” Cassie said, closing her eyes. There was a sudden look of pain on her face and her grip tightened visibly on Iron Lad’s metal sleeve. “Everyone knows that.”

“She didn’t snap without a reason, Cassie,” Iron Lad murmured as he gently stroked her fingers. “There was a reason.” He turned to Hawkeye and waited for her expectantly. "There's  _always_ a reason."

“The records make no mention of a cause,” she said, without hint of any emotion on her smooth face.

“Of course not. It was one of those shameful things that the Avengers liked to pretend didn’t happen,” Nate said, a soft smile pulling on his lips. “The truth is the Avengers wronged her.”

Adam felt his skin prickle. “What do you mean?”

“After her marriage to the Vision, the Witch gave birth to a pair of sons—twins. You and the speedster, there’s no point tiptoeing around that now.”

“Impossible,” Cassie said, frowning. She pulled away from Iron Lad and shook her head. “The Vision was a remarkable synthezoid but he couldn’t have had children.”

“I agree with Cassie,” Adam said. “And for the record, no magic—Form or Chaos—can create life. Not one that has a soul like a human, anyway. She probably just had an affair. It’s a small team and it isn’t like my moth—the Witch had a lot of time to meet men with functional gonads. There was plenty of cross-pollination in the old team; it’s a well-known fact.”

“Ewe,” Ruixian muttered to his side, even as Hawkeye snorted.

“You are correct on every count,” Iron Lad said. “Except for one: the Witch _was_ faithful to her husband.”

“All right,” Hawkeye conceded, raising a hand in Adam’s direction just as he was about to argue again. “Suppose that what you say is true, so what happened next?"

“Well, Cassie had already pointed it out. The Vision couldn’t have had children and yet the Witch _did_ get pregnant. That should have tipped off the Avengers, don’t you think? And I suppose it did, to some extent. Stark and Cap felt something was off but nobody wanted to cast aspersions on the Witch’s happiness—”

“Lest in turn she cast her wrath on them,” Sami said, smirking.

“Well, yeah, I suppose. Though, they were also _friends—_ ” he said the word with some acidity “—so by the time they figured out that she had fashioned the twins out of Mephisto’s soul, it was too late to—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait.  _Mephisto’s_ soul?” Adam said, dumbfounded. “As in _Mephistopheles?_  A  _demonic_ soul?” He was not a good person, he would admit that. He might even say outright that he was a bad person. But surely, he was not _demonic_ … right? “She wouldn’t dare...”

“I suspect it was subconscious,” Iron Lad said, with a thoughtful look and a noncommittal shrug.

“So what happened? Did the Avengers fail to defeat Mephisto?” Synapse asked. She laid hand on Adam’s forearm and traced soothing circles with her thumb. “Is that why she went insane?”

Iron Lad’s eyes flicked up and turned sharp. “Worse,” he said, voice hard and grim. “They _let_ him win.”

“What?” Hawkeye said. Her body tightened as she leaned forward slightly in his direction. “I don’t believe you.”

Iron Lad slowly shook his head. “Mephisto is an archdemon. Fighting him would have risked thousands of lives, if not the entire world. And Stark—ever the libertarian that he was—argued that Mephisto was only after what was his by right; they were fragments of _his_ soul after all. If there were one human right Stark would respect, it would be the right to personal property. So the Avengers let Mephisto take the twins and found a way to make the Witch forget.”

“Made her forget, how?”

“By magic, of course.”

Hawkeye sank back to her seat, her shoulders slumping forward and a hollowness filling her eyes. She reached for her mug with a trembling hand but it froze halfway and closed in a fist. “Liar,” she whispered, though it wasn’t clear who she meant. “They were just babies.”

“Come on, Kate,” Iron Lad said, face twisting into something that might be melancholy or self-pity. “You can’t honestly think the Avengers don’t play heroism by the numbers? They sacrificed _me_ too, don't you remember? They want me to become Kang, to become the monster I’d fought years fighting, so that the greater good could prevail.”

Adam chuckled. “The greater good," he said slowly, shaking his head. "Funny phrase. Do you notice how men only ever talk about the greater good when they're committing an unspeakable injustice? I suppose nothing leads to great evil as readily as the greater good.”

Hawkeye glanced at him and gave him a tired look. “Get on with the story,” she said, turning back to Iron Lad.

“Right,” he said; he had a glint in his eye, as if he had just emerged triumphant. “Long story short: the loss of her children, the Avengers’ betrayal, and the weight of the memory spell broke her mind and eventually drove her insane. Well, you know, the thing about memory magic, as I understand, is that it’s forbidden for a reason. It’s incredibly volatile and has a… corrupting effect on everything it touches. I’m sure _you_ feel it, _Adam Thorne_.” He turned to him and frowned, tilting his head to one side. “That isn't even your real name is it? Do you even remember? No? I suppose not. Price of magic and all that; you know you’ve lost something but you don’t know what it is. All you have left is the memory of a memory… How poignant is that?”

Adam grew cold at the way the boy was looking at him. Though he had not aged like the rest of them, Iron Lad seemed to be the most changed; there was something unsettling in how he confronted Adam—not quite malice or glee but it lacked the warmth that the boy used to have. The way he was studying Adam… as if he wasn’t a person but a problem that must be disentangled and fixed.

He knew at once that he couldn’t trust Iron Lad and decided that he would keep a close eye on him. And though the hair on his arms stood on end and his skin prickled, he kept his face blank and gave a dismissive shrug in response.

“But you feel it, right? It’s more than just your name that you’ve lost. You’re changing, aren’t you? You’re just… not _you_ anymore.”

“You seem to know a lot about memory magic.”

“I’ve learned many things in the timestream, Heir Supreme,” Iron Lad retorted, without the coldness that Adam had been expecting the whole night. He paused for a while, chewed on his lip, and then turned back to Hawkeye. “So after the Witch rained vengeance on the Avengers, she tried to bring her children back. Form… Chaos… She tried everything. But like Adam said, there’s no magic than can create a soul. It was beyond the ability of even one as powerful as the Scarlet Witch. The more she tried, the deeper it drove her into the abyss of madness. At some point, she rewrote the entire world in her father’s image. A mutant utopia where her sons existed, soulless empty shells though they were. Mere echoes of the children that she had lost to her friends’ betrayal. But she was happy, even though she knew that they weren’t real. She was happy again, at least for a while."

"What happened?" Cassie asked softly.

"The spell broke at some point, of course, because if there’s one thing the Avengers are good at, it’s saving and breaking the world. They broke hers to save theirs. Now humans are once again free to oppress and subjugate mutants because you can save the world but god forbid you actually try to _change_ it for the better.”

A sullen silence had befallen the room. These were ancient sins that Iron Lad was unearthing, a stain that the Avengers had sought to keep secret. He had no proof, no evidence to offer but Adam knew, and everyone else did too, that the boy who would become Kang was telling the truth.

“And now we come to you, Adam Thorne,” Iron Lad went on, though not unkindly. “When her spell broke and the world was restored—mutant oppression and all—her sons were somehow recreated as well. _You_ two, who were the Witch’s sons, now born to other families. And more surprisingly, Scarlet Heir, _with souls of your own._ No demonic homunculus or magical trickery but your own true souls, indistinguishable from a real—sorry, I meant _conventional_ human soul. Two souls created out of nothing. An impossibility, as you’ve said.”

Adam lifted his eyes from the table and said weakly, “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of.”

Iron Lad shook his head and gave a half-smile. “I don’t know either.” He shrugged. “I think you’re quite faultless at this, to be honest. And it’s incredible! An immaculate birth, if there ever were one. If this happened two thousand years ago, they’d have built a religion around you.” He looked around the table with a grin, which faltered when he was met with unimpressed faces and a stony silence.

“Well, I think you’re quite remarkable, Adam,” Cassie said, turning to him with an apologetic look.

“Thanks,” Adam muttered, suppressing the urge to flinch.

“Adam's special. We all get it," Synapse interjected, rolling her eyes. "I still don’t understand how this is related to the Faketriot."

“Well, something else appeared that day. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there,” Iron Lad said.

“The Faketriot, then?”

“No, not yet. This was something else. _Someone_ else. Someone _you_ made, Adam.” Iron Lad fixed his eyes on him, eyes which, to his surprise, were filled not with accusation but with sadness and softness. “Do you remember him?”

 _Teddy. His name was Teddy_ , the thought came to him, painful and unbidden.  _Teddy. His name was Te—fuck!_

“No, I-I—” Adam buried his head in his hands and tangled his fingers in his hair. “No, I don’t.” He closed his eyes and pulled at his hair. A throbbing pain bloomed inside his skull but he was sure that if he pulled hard enough, he could wrench out the name.

“I don’t remember him either,” Iron Lad said. “And that's a feat because when I'm in the timestream, I’m immune to changes to the timeline. Whatever took him is powerful if it can screw with the timestream like that.”

He kept on talking but the words disappeared under a buzzing sound in Adam’s head. The name fought back, deciding it would be denied no more and yet the word was hard on Adam’s throat, stuck in his larynx like something was pulling it back. His throat burned with the effort of speaking it out loud.

“Teddy,” he managed with considerable relief, panting and sweating profusely. He spoke it again, his voice soft. "His name was Teddy."

The pain in his head disappeared instantly, replaced instead by an emptiness that spread through him like a creeping coldness. His hands fell away from his hair and he released a shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping forward as he folded into himself. When he looked up, he saw everyone staring at him.

 _I made Teddy_.

And his heart broke at the thought.

“Ah. So that's his name,” Iron Lad said. “Teddy... Okay. So you do remember something.”

“Who's Teddy?” Hawkeye asked.

“A thought. A boy Adam dreamed up. A wish given life. He was a Young Avenger, just like us, and then something took him away.”

“Oh..." Hawkeye said, her voice suddenly soft. "Adam...”

He could hear the twin tones of disapproval and sympathy and for a moment, he hated her for that.

“I didn’t know,” he said, breaking away from everyone’s pitying gaze. “I didn’t know. I thought he was real.” He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, willing away the tears.

“You were in love with him,” Sami said quietly, turning his head on the table to stare at him.

“Were you?” Synapse asked. And when her voice came, it was tender and jealous and heartbroken.

Adam tipped his head and let the hair fall over his eyes “I was,” he said, blinking back the tears now threatening to spill.

_I am. God, I still am._

“Do you remember him?”

“I have no memories of him”, he said. “But I remember loving him. I-I…”

 _The love I have for him remains, even without my memory of him._ Grief without memory. Affection without object. A hopeless impotent frustration that grew heavy with unspent force. Like a pent-up spell that failed at the last moment of casting—or perhaps the edge of a denied orgasm.

There was a short silence and nobody tried to berate or console him. Outside, the wind was howling, skidding across the ship’s skin with a susurrus sound. Everything had taken on a bleary quality, like he was in a dream, and even the sound of conversation sounded distant and muffled. With considerable effort, he forced himself to focus and listened to the rest of the conversation in a daze.

“He existed for about twenty-five years before something tore him away from the universe,” Iron Lad went on. “Usually, when something like this happens, when a thing that wasn’t supposed to be here disappears, the universe manages to fix the damage to the timeline rather easily. It rewrites itself so that no important events are changed despite the entity’s removal. It’s not all that rare, to be honest; people and things sometimes just fall out of the timeline for various reasons. But this Teddy… he’s holding on. Or something is pulling him back from whatever it is that’s trying to remove him. So the wound can’t completely close.”

 _Me_. _I’m pulling back. I’m the one fighting whatever it is that wants to take Teddy away._

“You don’t know why he disappeared?” Hawkeye asked.

“I don’t.”

“And you don’t know who’s responsible either.”

“I don’t either.”

Hawkeye released a long-suffering sigh. “How will you fulfill your destiny as time-travelling mass-murderer if you can’t even figure out who your enemies are?”

“Kate!” Cassie exclaimed, fixing her a glare.

“Wha—”

“It’s a scar,” Synapse interjected. “The Faketriot is a scar.”

“You’re right,” Iron Lad said, ignoring Hawkeye’s provocations (though the hardness seemed to have resettled on his face). “Metaphorically speaking, the Faketriot behaves like a scar. It’s cauterizing the wound to the timeline by forcing key players—us, those who had been closest to Teddy—to make certain events happen. Events that originally happened because of Teddy and that now should happen _despite_ the absence of Teddy.”

“Am I right to say that finding the speedster is one of these events?”

Iron Lad gave a curt nod. “Correct. The second one. The first is Eli. He was never supposed to fall in so deep. With Teddy, the Young Avengers managed to save him before the MGH started taking a toll on his body.”

“So we fix him,” Hawkeye said. “How do you suppose we do that?”

“Well,” Iron Lad said, his eyes trailing away and finding Synapse’s.

“ _I_ fix him,” she said bitterly. “The mutant fixes the MGH addict.”

Hawkeye turned and leveled her a frown.

“What?” Synapse demanded hotly, glaring back. “I’ll do it, all right? But there’s no reason to sugarcoat the irony here.”

“He was just a kid,” Hawkeye said.

“So was I. Still am, if you haven’t noticed.” She spread her arms to her sides, as if to present her body for Hawkeye’s inspection.

They stared each other down for a long second until Cassie finally broke the silence.

“And after Eli and the speedster?” she asked, throwing Synapse a sympathetic half-smile.

“I don’t know,” Iron Lad admitted. “I’m not done with the calculations yet. It took me months just to isolate these two events.”

A frown creased between her eyebrows. “How many are there?”

“I’m not sure. Three or four, I think.”

“So at least now we know something. Faketriot and the speedster are the same problem.” Hawkeye was tapping on the table with her forefinger, making an intermittent clicking sound. “What if we can’t fix the timeline? What’s going to happen?”

“Time runs out,” Iron Lad said with a yawn.

“Which means?”

“It’s hard to explain without delving into the mathematics of time travel; it’s all equations. But to put it in the bluntest and simplest way: the timeline will bleed out at the wound. All lives that had been touched by Teddy would be irrevocably and grotesquely changed. And then those changes will ripple outward, backward and forward in the timestream in a chaotic and unpredictable manner, corrupting past, present, future, and even other realities. It would be catastrophic.”

“You’ve already done some projections on that, haven’t you?” Hawkeye said.

Iron Lad nodded gravely. “Two billion lives. That’s the damage, for this universe alone. Two billion lives unborn. And many more plunged in suffering.”

 _All because of me_. The sins of the mother repeated by the son. The creation of a life that was not supposed to be. Magic was the violation of the rules of the universe but _this…_ This was impossible. This was blasphemy.

“There’s no way,” Adam found himself saying, breaking the stupor that had settled on his mind. “No magic can create a soul. Life, maybe, but not a soul. Even then, the price would be astronomical. Cosmic.”

“You said it was impossible, not expensive,” Hawkeye said, the bile in her voice tempered only slightly with pity.

“Life, maybe, but a soul… a true human soul…” Adam repeated, wide eyes training on hers. He was on his feet now, he realized, and the equations were running hot and quick in his head. “There’s no way to negotiate the rules to create a soul. The way magic works, it just isn’t possible.”

“And yet here you are,” Sami said with a flick of his wrist. “And your boytoy wherever it is he might be. Which magic community college did you go to again?”

“What about those people in the Sanctuaire?” Cassie asked before Adam could snap at Sami. "Are they part of this timestream problem?"

Iron Lad brought a hand to his chin and spoke slowly. "I don't know."

Adam huffed out in annoyance and ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and knotted and flakes of dandruff fell as he pulled away. “When I was looking for Ruixian,” he started. “I met a spirit. She said that there was an infection spreading among humans. Mutants, Inhumans, everyone. A disease no spirit has ever seen.”

Sami scoffed and pushed himself up the table to sit up straight. “Impossible. The Sanctuaire has a very strict screening policy for all sorts of maladies. Anything that presents a biochemical change _is_ detected. We are, after all, first and foremost, a hospital.” His chest puffed out and his nose lifted, as if in pride. There was even the hint of his signature Sami smile returning to his lips.

“And that just confirms that the pathogen must be something new,” Hawkeye concluded. “The Inhuman monarchy. Ted told me. You think it’s connected?”

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be.”

“The Inhumans did not exhibit any signs of rabidity or aggression though.”

“It might work differently for Inhumans,” Synapse suggested. “Or mutants. I’ve never seen or read anything like it.”

“Should we be worried then?” Sami asked. “I’m fine now,” he insisted as he waved away Synapse’s hand, having been reanimated by sudden panic.

“That we’re infected?” Cassie asked, turning to look at Iron Lad.

“Not likely. I ran a scan on everyone after Synapse said she’d detected a biological change in the attackers,” he said. “But without knowing what exactly to test for, I can’t be certain that the pathogen isn’t just dormant. We should look out for each other.”

A short pause, as everyone let the pieces of the puzzle fall into place and took time to absorb everything. Adam dropped back in his chair.

“So what do we do now?” Cassie asked meekly, her head falling back on Iron Lad’s shoulder.

“We save the world,” he said, grinning boyishly as he leaned down and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead.

Save the world. Right. Where had Adam heard that before? It all seemed so… _colossal_ now. But at least, now with everything on the table and properly fitted into place, they had a place to start. A way to systematically hack away at the problem.

“I’ve already relayed a report on the infection to the Avengers. Let them take care of that. We’ll deal with the speedster, Faketriot, and hopefully the Seven as well. Since the speedster is connected to the Seven, hopefully they’d be part of the Teddy thing too,” Hawkeye said, pointedly _not_ looking at Adam. “Iron Lad, do you have any leads on the speedster?”

“Please,” he replied with some measure of derision. “I’m a time traveller. I have all the leads.”

Hawkeye rolled her eyes. “Well, let’s have it then,” she said, reaching for her coffee. She seemed to have returned to her usual self, now that they had a clear line of action. “What do you have, time traveller?”

“I have his last known location.”

Adam allowed himself a smile that he didn’t feel yet. “Nice.”

“Yeah, no...” Iron Lad said, flushing. “It’s from seven years ago.”

“So you’re telling us,” Synapse began, “that you know where he was _seven years ago_?”

“God, I think I prefer Kang,” Hawkeye muttered, earning her a pinch on the arm from Cassie.

“Well, it’s the best I could do, okay?” Iron Lad said hotly. He folded his arms over his chest and pouted. “The guy’s shielded after that point in the timeline.”

“What do you mean ‘ _shielded_ ’?” Hawkeye asked,

“He disappeared from the timestream. Like he just stopped existing seven years ago. Someone wanted him hidden and did a very good job.”

Hawkeye brought a hand to her chin, forehead creasing as she deliberated on something. “It seems someone’s pulling the strings behind our little speedster,” she said after some time. “Where’s your lead, then?”

 

Adam made it to the toilet just as he started heaving. He hadn’t eaten anything that day, so nothing came out. But it hurt all the same—perhaps even more—as his throat contracted in waves, expelling nothing but air, acid, and blood that somehow came out black. Once it had passed, he sat up against the wall and caught his breath, placing a clammy hand on his forehead and wiping the sweat pouring off him.

He cast a tired look around and took stock. Surrounding him on the cold metal floor were frayed bundles of herbs, candle stumps, and a small plastic cup that he had used to hold his blood. The contents had spilled on the floor some time ago, pooling over the runes that he had painstakingly etched on the metal floor and covering them with a thin film. It was all useless now, expended and unrecyclable, a hefty price paid for a pittance.

Still, it was something. A slight static crackled over his skin as the protective spell settled over him like a veil. It had taken him four attempts and nearly six hours just to get it right but it worked—it might not stop a bullet or even a knife, but it might deflect a half-hearted punch if the angle were _just_ right.

It worked.

 _And thank fuck just for that_. Because that meant that magic wasn’t completely broken yet and he could still fix it. He wouldn’t take the Supremacy—he couldn’t, anyway, not while he was still Adam Thorne—but he’d find a way so no one else had to die because of him.

So now he laughed breathlessly, despite the stabbing pain in his side and the black spots popping in his vision.

 _It worked; it actually fucking worked_ , he thought to himself.

He gestured a quick one-handed Form, a simple one that had no purpose but to diffract light into a pretty multicolored ribbon. It didn’t work. So he tried again, and again, and again, modifying the Form slightly with each try and laughing to himself every time it failed.

“You can do this,” he told himself. “If you can create a fucking person, you can—”

He cut himself off with a strangled cry, his heart seizing in a soundless sob.

_Teddy…_

His hand fell uselessly to his side as his body began shaking uncontrollably, his chest heaving and his stomach contracting until he found himself leaning back over the toilet and vomiting black goop.

His thoughts came to him confused and haphazard, running and tripping over each other.

_I created Teddy… kind, beautiful, golden Teddy with thoughts and emotions and a fucking soul and now he’s lost and all alone because I wasn’t strong enough to keep him here—or to never have created him at all!_

He raised his hand and made the useless Form again. Nothing happened but it was important, he knew, so he kept at it.

And then, perhaps on his hundredth attempt, something broke and gave way; the space before him lit up in a shimmering brilliance, a wavering translucent curtain of light that swayed slowly in midair. It served as a sort of litmus test to check a place for anything that might warp, diminish, or magnify the effects of magic, and it would normally be opalescent, a psychedelic kaleidoscopic explosion of colors in the fashion of a borealis. But instead it was just a swirling mist of blue and gold, which, somehow, appeared more beautiful than what he had intended. Yet despite that, the sight plunged him deeper in despair, not simply for the brokenness of magic but for a significance to a memory that he couldn't remember. He began to cry, even as he continued laughing, his other hand pressed hard against his forehead while tears flowed freely down his cheeks. The borealis waved and shifted above him, casting a soft glorious light on the sickly pallor of his skin.

But it was a minor spell, short-lived, meant more to impress than anything, and it eventually dulled and extinguished itself.

So Adam did it again, and again, and again, even as blood began to drip down his nose and his stomach threatened to heave, tracing glittering streaks in the air until his eyes were blind and he could see nothing but blue and gold... again, and again, and again, until his wrist hurt, his fingers cramped, and he could make the Form no more.

 

_He was cold. But Teddy was beside him, the warmth of his body pressing against Billy even through their thick winter coats. Above them, the sky was an explosion of stars, like a map, hiding behind the veil of an aurora borealis._

_“You didn’t tell me,” Billy said, his voice breaking as the words finally left his lips. He kept his eyes fixed forward, knowing he couldn’t bear to look at the boy who never was._

_“I made you.”_

_He didn’t know what to expect, what answer Teddy would give him, so it was well that Teddy remained silent, though that too became agonizing at some point._

_“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, in the wake of this unbearable silence._

_Teddy’s hand separated from his and as Teddy stepped away, leaving Billy feeling alone and cold, his heart filled with conviction. Funny, he didn’t even realize that Teddy had been holding his hand._

_“I imagined you.” Tears burned his eyes and his breath frosted in the chill air, white and ghostly and dissipating. A dream vanished in the light of day. “And you didn’t tell me.”_

_A strong hand—heavy and solid and so deceptively real—closed around his wrist and twirled him around until he came face to face with Teddy. Beautiful, golden, imaginary Teddy._

_“Look at me, Billy,” Teddy said, voice hard with desperation. “Do you feel this?” His hand tightened around Billy’s wrist, firm but not painful. His breath touched Billy’s skin, transient and vanishing. Like a ghost._

I’m here, I’m here _, his blue eyes screamed._ Feel me, feel how real I am.

_“I made you!” Billy cried out, pulling away with such force that he slipped and fell, crushing the perfect snow under one knee._

_“Billy,” Teddy said weakly. It seemed that it was all he could say now, as he gently held Billy by the arms and lifted him to his feet. “Look at me,” he murmured in a pained voice. “Please.”_

_Billy didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and kept them shut, trying his best to ignore the arms enclosing him._

_And then Teddy said it. He said the last words that Billy wanted to hear in that moment._

_“I love you.”_

_“No!” Billy shrieked. His body moved against his will, shaking and thrashing violently to break Teddy’s hold on him. “Let go of me!”_

_“I love you,” Teddy said again, tightening his arms around Billy._

_“Get away from me!”_

_“Please, Billy,” Teddy pleaded, and Billy could feel a wetness spreading on his temple now, where Teddy had pressed his face. “You’re all I have.”_

_“You’re not real!” Billy screamed against the flurry falling of snow._

_There was a moment, a perfect crystalline silence when the world stilled, each atom and falling snowflake turning to watch. Teddy’s arms went slack and fell away._

_“I love y—”_

_With a final burst of resistance, Billy shoved Teddy away with all his strength, hard enough that the other boy slipped and fell to the ground on his back._

_They stared at each other, both in stunned silence. Teddy was splayed on the snow, hands and feet pressed down for support and his scarf hanging limp to one side with its knot undone._

_Billy took a step and offered his hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”_

_But the look on the other boy’s face kept him away. Teddy stared back, blue eyes wide with the shock of heartbreak._

_Memory came to Billy in a rush, painful not in their usual way that made his head throb. But painful like the ache that came with the cold of snow, the ache of something treasured—like heat—leaving his body._

_How many times had he seen Teddy fall to the ground? How many times had he seen the boy he loved struggle to stand up, panting and trembling, so that he could keep on fighting even as his body failed him? How many times did he force himself to his feet, bloody but unbroken, with a defiant sneer on his lips? How many times?_

Always _, the voice of memory answered for him._

Always. For you.

_But now Teddy would not get up. He was rooted to the ground, wet and cold, unable to move a muscle._

_Billy took another step and Teddy jerked back instinctively, away from Billy, eyes widening with fear as if he were afraid that Billy would hurt him._

_There was a sudden gust, kicking up the snow in a fierce blizzard, and then, just as abruptly, it was gone. Billy was alone and the world was quiet and white and calm again. Snowflakes drifted about his legs, scudding along and caught in a draft, and the cold began to seep through his clothes._

_Before him, the snow was smooth and unbroken..._ _pristine and undisturbed, as if Teddy had never been there at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came late and is much shorter than usual. The pace is starting to pick up and these next few scenes are bumming me out so I've sort of been putting them off. Anyway, hope you liked it!
> 
> I always seek to improve my writing so do leave a comment, good or bad. Your thoughts, dear reader, are always welcome.
> 
> Talk to me on Tumblr!  
> http://kleos-aphthit0n.tumblr.com


	6. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam discovers what happened to his brother and finds his way home.
> 
> Elsewhere, in the dark, Billy begins to unravel.

Dawn broke over the gleaming city of Singapore, harsh and glaring with all the punitive aggression of a hangover. The city itself sparkled something like a metal toy that had been dropped carelessly in the tub and Adam watched it all with cold apathy from the co-pilot seat in the cockpit.

“Hey,” someone said, bumping a shoulder against his.

“Hey,” he muttered, softly and half-heartedly. He turned and saw that it was Ruixian. “Who’s flying?”

“Kate.”

He looked to the seat to his left and, indeed, saw the Avenger. Then, shrugging weakly, he turned away and stared out the windshield again. They were flying rather close to the surface of the sea, low enough that Adam could see the swell of the heaving waves as they crawled their way to the island in the distance.

“So,” Ruixian spoke again, in that irritating way she did when she didn’t know well enough to stay quiet and leave him alone. “Singapore.”

“Yep.”

“Been a long time.” She sat on his chair's right armrest and ran a hand through his hair.

“Sure has.”

A beat of silence. He didn’t miss the subtle sweep of electricity through his body. But he didn’t mind. He was in a foul mood and he didn’t want to talk. He wanted her to go away and if checking on him without permission could catalyze that outcome, then she could have at it.

But what did he care if she stayed anyway? In fact, it didn’t matter. She could stay or go. Let her fill the silence if she wanted to talk. Whatever.

“So,” she said again.

“So.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

He thought that would make her go away but it didn’t. Frustratingly loyal girl that she was, Ruixian stayed beside him, running her hand through his filthy hair as she hummed some Tracy Chapman song.

“I created him,” he found himself saying. He kept his eyes fixed forward, hard and focused on the glittering city. “And then I fell in love with him. I mean how pathetic is that? I’m such a fucking idiot.”

She waited for him to say more, patient and quiet with only the careful movement of her fingers through his hair to indicate that she was still there. When it became clear that he was done talking, she asked, “Did he love you too?”

And that was the crux of this existential conundrum, wasn’t it? Did Teddy really love him? Or was he simply programmed that way—to befriend Adam and to fall in love with him? How could he ever be sure that the love Teddy professed wasn’t just part of the spell that created him? Where was Teddy’s choice in all this?

“I don’t know,” he said, after a long pause. “I don’t even know if he has free will. What if he only loves me because I encoded that in his DNA or something? I mean is that even really love? What is love, if there’s no free will?”

“I don't think falling in love is a choice,” Ruixian murmured. Her hand froze in his hair for a moment before she withdrew it completely. “If it were, there’d be no broken hearts, right?”

“I suppose,” Adam said. “You think it’s chance, then?”

“In a way.”

Adam thought about it for a while. “I don’t know which is worse.”

“What is this, high school?” Ruixian said, a little irritably. She flicked his ear playfully, though it stung just a little. “You’re asking what love is. Do you know how difficult it is to answer that?”

Adam shrugged, still refusing to look at her, and swept away a lock of hair that had fallen over his eye. “It needs to be answered.”

Another pause. They were almost at the island now and the skyline had become more pronounced; in the distance, skyscrapers rose from the ocean and reached out like gray fingers against the pink backdrop of dawn.

 _Skyscraper—_ he always did like that word _…_ a structure so high, it scraped the sky. There was a certain romanticism to the imagery, and even a bit of hubris.

With a pull of a lever, Kate put the ship on stealth mode. There was a sudden bustle of activity behind him as Cassie and Nate prepared themselves for landing. Even Eli seemed excited; he was in a frenzied fit under the covers of his cot, his head whipping around as he muttered nonsense words at a bored-looking Sami, who could only stare back with vacuous uncaring eyes.

Everyone, even Cassie, seemed to have given up on the Inhuman, who hadn't smiled in days and preferred to spend his time with Eli, mumbling to himself in Hindi and French as he alternated between weeping in his hands and glaring at everyone. He refused to eat or drink _—_ except for the bottle of whiskey that Kate had to wrestle from him more than a couple of times _—_ and even though it was clear that he no longer cared to shower, he spent inordinate lengths of time in the bathroom. Ruixian might have helped but he wouldn't allow her anywhere near him anymore.

“So what are you gonna do?” Ruixian asked, scattering his thoughts.

“I don’t know.” Adam brought his legs up to the chair and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Do I _un_ make him to fix the time stream? Shit, I don’t even know how to do that. And that would be murder, right? Or is that okay? Cos I’m like his god or something. Does that give me a pass?”

“Well, do you _want_ to unmake him?”

He turned to her now, desperate for someone who wasn'thim to come up with an answer, for someone else to make the decision for him. It would be so easy then. “No. But what I want doesn't matter. What's important is what I need to do. Tell me, Ray. What should I do?”

She stared at him for a while, her dark brown eyes peering deep into his as her mind grappled with the problem. “Do what you think is right,” was her useless response.

“Well, what do _you_ think?” he asked with an expert roll of his eyes.

“I think,” she said in a solemn voice. She picked a lock of his hair, rolled it between her fingers, and let it fall. “I think you look like shit.”

Adam turned away and groaned. The girl never did have good timing. “Come on, Ray.”

“Smell like it too,” Kate said from the pilot seat, glancing over at him and wrinkling her nose. “We have about twenty minutes before we get to the coordinates that Nate gave me. Seriously, Adam, take a shower.”

The girls exchanged a secret look and doubled over laughing. He didn't like how they were getting too chummy with each other but the sound of their laughter warmed him a little; it was a reminder: whatever it was that had to be done, he didn’t have to do it alone.

“Go away, you two,” he said. “I was perfectly happy wallowing here on my own.”

“Oh, and why didn't you tell me?” Kate asked, shoulders shaking as she chuckled and wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes.

“Tell you what?” Adam asked, as flatly as he could.

“That you’re gay.”

“Oh.” Had he never toldl her? He couldn’t remember now. “It just never came up, I guess.”

“So you’re not bi?” Ruixian asked with a clear tone of disappointment.

“I'm gay. Very _very_ gay. Like super gay.”

“You could have told me,” she said bitterly.

“Well now you know.”

“It’s time to change your codename, Adam,” Kate said. And the way she spoke, it was clear that she was stifling another laugh.

“What’s wrong with Asgar...” Adam’s voice drifted off.

After a moment's pause, the girls howled together and his face burned a deep scarlet. And then, soon enough, despite the sinking feeling that clung inside his chest, he found himself smiling… even if just a little.

 

“Why are you even here?” Adam asked testily, adjusting the clasp of his scarlet robe. It was probably a poor choice to have worn it, since he was already sweating under the eternal summer of the sweltering Singapore sun, but with little magic to command, he needed all the protection he could get. (Also, it billowed out rather magnificently behind him and today, of all days, he thought the dramatics might lift his mood). “You could have stayed on the ship.”

Iron Lad shook his head. “It happened this way the first time,” he explained. “Don’t wanna risk deviating from the plotted course. There. I think I found the entrance.”

He pointed at a pair of metal doors, rusted over and pocked with what Adam suspected were indentations made by gunfire. True enough, there were shell casings scattered around the base, and the chaotic way they lay on the ground suggested that nobody had gone in the building since the Red Skull’s invasion—at least not through _this_ door.

“So in this world where this Teddy person existed, the Avengers let you stay with us? You were a Young Avenger?” Cassie asked offhandedly as she carefully pried open the door.

Iron Lad took the lead and stepped into the dark. He extended a forearm to his side and a thin planar beam of light swept across the room. “They didn’t,” he said, looking at the readings on his wrist. “But the math says I was here. Sort of. Some proxy for me, I think? I don’t really understand how that’s possible either so I think it might be a time paradox or something.”

“You’ve got a long way to go, Kang,” Hawkeye said as she stepped through the door, each hand gripping a gun.

“Hawkeye… come on…” Stature said, almost pleadingly, to which Hawkeye responded with a shrug.

To his credit, Iron Lad did not rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped forward and guided them through the long corridor of debris and metal scraps. It was dusty too and smelled of mildew and rotten meat and Adam could not shake off the sense of sacrilege at intruding on what was essentially a warzone—or a mass grave—which before that had also been a prison.

“What happened to the bow and arrow?” Stature asked perfunctorily, to break the silence.

“Too bulky and too slow,” Hawkeye said curtly, without turning to look at her. She wasn’t trying to be rude but it was obvious in her dismissive tone that she didn’t want to talk about it.

“I remember you always insisted on them.”

“Like I said: too bulky and too slow. Last lesson I learned from Clint.”

“Oh.”

Nobody tried to make conversation after that. In silence, they passed by rows upon rows of open doors and aside from the obligatory check, nobody lingered too long at the doorways. Everyone knew the things that they would find inside and so it was well that Iron Lad had insisted that Ruixian stayed on the ship.

At the end of the corridor was another pair of metal doors, hanging at the hinges and flung inwards into what looked like a main office. Inside were papers strewn all over the floor, bits of broken ceramics, and chairs and lamps and other small pieces of furniture knocked over to their sides. There were large cabinets too—the kind one would find in the archives of a library or a police station—some partially open, almost everything packed with folders. Like the rest of the holding facility, the room exuded a look of age and dilapidation.

“It’s here,” Iron Lad declared. “These are all the records that survived. Singapore has very strict laws governing mutant experimentation so everything is either on paper or CD. Nothing is ever uploaded. For reasons of national security, of course.”

Adam looked around and stared despairingly at the cabinets brimming with papers. “Can you find the file with your tech?” he asked despite already knowing the answer.

“Doesn’t work like that, Asgardian,” Iron Lad said as he pulled open a drawer and began flipping through the files. “My tech’s not magic.”

Hawkeye and Stature both turned imploringly to Adam, with a shared look of hope. But he could only return a shrug. “Magic doesn’t work like that either,” he lied.

He knew it could work—or rather, he could _make_ it work. He had been experimenting with fingerspells for the past few days and he had figured out the tricks and modifications to the Forms that could make just about any given spell work. And to supplement his fingerspells, he had derived a preliminary framework for string magic from the charm that Maria had taught him and he was armed (or wrapped, rather) to the tooth with all sorts of supportive charms to aid in his casting. But still, despite all that hard work and innovation, casting the modified Forms would be long and arduous and so exorbitant that he’d rather spend hours raking through the records on his own than to cast a simple location spell, which might cost anywhere from an hour of lost sleep to a literal pound of flesh. So long as he had no notion of this new exchange rate, he thought he’d better keep the magic to a minimum.

So with a defeated sigh, he turned to the nearest cabinet and began reading through the files.

Somewhere behind him, he heard the static of a walkie-talkie. With a groan of her own, Hawkeye muttered to the radio, “Settle down, Synapse. We’ll be here for hours.”

 

_The main course came a little slow. And when it did, Teddy balked at the dish that was presented to him._

_“What is this?” he asked, once the waiter was out of earshot. With a long silver fork, he poked suspiciously at a roasted cherry tomato. “Why is everything… like this?”_

_“Huh. So this is deconstructed food,” Billy said, grinning apologetically. They did this thing where they would order for each other every time they were trying out a new place. Whoever picked the better dish would be entitled to certain... favors. At least that way, nobody really lost._

_“What in hipster hell is ‘deconstructed’?”_

_Billy couldn't help the slightly obnoxious sound that broke through his lips. “I think it’s Postmodernism?” he said thoughtfully. “But like… for food?”_

_Teddy grunted as he twisted a few strands of pasta in his fork. The amatriciana, somehow, had been reconstituted into three silver boats, which he had to pour over the twisted spaghetti in the sequence printed out on the stiff card that came with the dish._

_“You lose this one, Kaplan,” he said, even as his eyes widened with delight when he chewed._

_Billy snorted. "So how is it?"_

_Teddy schooled his face into something that looked less impressed. "It's edible," he mumbled bitterly._

_Billy rolled his eyes and smiled as he looked around. It was a fancy place, the kind of fancy that might have taken Avenger strings to secure a reservation. The high ceiling was domed and decked with chandeliers that illuminated the space and there were authentic candelabras—yes, honest to god functional candelabras with fire and everything—mounted on the cream-colored walls. The music emanated from an indoor balcony, alternating between a string quartet and what Teddy insisted must be a Venetian castrati choir, and the waiters all spoke English. The very air smelled like perfume or flowers and the crowd, to Billy's untrained eye, seemed fashionable, as one would expect when in Italy. Everything looked expensive—maybe Bishop so-so, but certainly Kaplan expensive—all the way to the tablecloth; in fact, Billy was pretty sure that the napkin cost more than his suit._

_“You’re not really here, are you?” he said, still smiling, as he turned back to Teddy._

_The boy looked ridiculously handsome—more so than usual—though perhaps only in virtue of rarely being seen in a suit, and it seemed that his earrings were especially polished tonight, though that too might simply just be a trick of Billy’s remorse. Teddy ate his pasta quietly and thoughtfully and drank the paired wine just as obliviously, the full weight of his attention focused on his meal as if he hadn’t heard Billy speak... as if Billy's heart wasn't breaking all over again in front of him._

_“Just like that time in the park,” Billy continued, trying to keep his voice from catching in his throat. “This is just a memory of you. Of us."_

_“Come on, Bee. Don’t call him that,” Teddy said, brandishing his fork between them, which earned him a few disapproving looks from surrounding tables. “I think you should be nicer to him. He’s your brother, after all.”_

_Billy watched the memory of the other boy and smiled to himself. He wondered if he could touch this Teddy. If he reached across the table and closed the distance between them, would his hand simply pass through like a hologram? Or would it still land on solid skin, without this Teddy feeling all the weight behind that touch? All the pain and promise and meaning behind it. If he walked over right now and kissed Teddy on the lips, would he..._

_Billy shook away the thought. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”_

_The memory began to unravel, starting at the edges. The walls shimmered, frayed, and then disappeared, giving way to an encroaching darkness._

_“I don’t know if you’re here somewhere," he continued, looking around hopelessly for the familiar flash of gold and blue. "But I’m hoping you can hear me.”_

_The memory played on. “No, I didn’t," the memory of Teddy said, unaware that the world was falling apart. "It’s your turn tonight. Did you forget?”_

_The music had already stopped and there were only four tables around them now. Beyond that, oblivion stretched infinitely to the distance._

_“Come back to me, please,” Billy whispered, as the darkness finally devoured the boy who was memory, leaving Billy alone. “I can fix this. Us.”_

_"It's me, Teddy, it's me." He floated in the void, alone, and whispered to himself,_ _“I'm still me. I’m still Billy.”_

 

It took them two days. And then some more.

They combed through the main office twice, found nothing, and then, just as they were about to give up, they discovered a second archive through a door partially hidden by a cabinet that had fallen to its side.

“Awesome,” Iron Lad said happily, as he carelessly blasted the obstructing furniture. The destruction was so loud and excessive, hurling metallic shrapnel, that it forced Hawkeye and Stature to take cover. One particular projectile had nearly hit Adam’s arm if not for the quick twist of his cloak that shielded him.

“Hey! Careful!” Hawkeye shouted, peeking out from behind a fallen table when the explosion had cleared.

Nate turned, saw the carnage behind him, and turned beet red. “Oh, shit, sorry.”

“S’okay,” Adam said, wincing as his head swam with vertigo for a few seconds, the cost of his sudden though inadvertent use of magic. He would take note of that. “But be more careful next time. For now, let’s just get through this.”

The second room contained higher-class mutants. Telekinesis… Pyrokinesis… All sorts of -kineses… Psychics… Material manipulation… Adam even found a file on Ruixian, which he surreptitiously snuck inside his cloak. By the time they found something, they’d been at it for at least another day and everyone was already exhausted and cranky.

Well, everyone except Iron Lad, who seemed to be so determined and single-minded that he had simply forgotten to feel exhausted and cranky. His laser-focus concentration was tireless and absolute; he could ignore just about all external stimuli, even most of Stature’s prodding. They quite literally had to drag him back to the ship to eat and Adam never saw him sleep at all. The boy had a quiet mania about him, Adam observed, which expressed itself in a steady and inexhaustible stamina.

This was understandably important to him. The danger was to the time stream, after all, his fortress, his home. But Adam suspected that the obsession probed at some deeper motive. A softer, more intimate purpose… perhaps the chance to prove to himself that if he could save the world this time, then he could still escape fate… that he could still be a hero—or at the very least, _not_ become a genocidal supervillain. There was something exceedingly maudlin about it: a time traveller who could command fate, except his own.

 _Or maybe_ , _just maybe,_ Adam thought with a sigh, _I’m just projecting_.

It was then that he found the file, when he turned away from the boy’s puckered face and glanced through the stack he’d just retrieved. He had almost missed it too, if it hadn’t been for the way that the name tingled inside his head. _Dr. Dorothy Talman_ , the folder was labeled. And true enough, there was mention of a speedster.

“Here,” he said out loud. “I think I found something.” There were towering piles of folders around him, walling him off almost like a fort, and the other three had to squeeze in so they could crowd and crouch alongside him.

“What’ve you got?” Hawkeye asked, leaning over to look at the opened folder in his hands.

“Subject 407,” Adam read aloud. “Accelerated homeostasis. Speed-adapted physiology. Hyper-accelerated neurocognition. Something about an electron transport chain? Fully realized alpha-class speedster—there we go—and... chronopathic awareness and entropic manipulation? Some measurements here… and he was nineteen years old at the date of the last—” he paused as he stared at the next word and for a moment, he froze, his vision swimming and turning red.

“Hey…” Cassie said, her voice breaking through the haze in his head and her gentle hand on his arm bringing him back. “Would you like me to?”

Adam cleared his throat and shook his head. “Nineteen years old on the date of the last experiment,” he continued. “Attending physician was one Anupama Raut.”

Then the words ran out and he stopped. No further information.

“Anything else?” Hawkeye asked softly just as Iron Lad insisted, “There must be more.”

“There’s a CD but it’s all scratched up.”

Nate pressed a few buttons on his wrist and, with an impatient clicking of his fingers, said, “Give it here. I think I can squeeze something out.”

Adam passed him the disc and watched a thin beam of light slowly sweep across the diffractive underside. “It’s pretty bad,” Iron Lad said as the laser returned for a second scan. “But it should work. Maybe if I just—aha!” There was a soft beep on the sixth scan and Iron Lad, triumphantly punching the air, quickly stood up and started pacing the room.

Stature and Adam exchanged an amused look and even Hawkeye couldn’t help but smile a little. It was a sudden and jarring reminder: unlike them, Nate was still just a kid.

“Blood work… biopsies... genome sequencing… ECG… It’s all here, and all very boring…” Iron Lad muttered excitedly as he hovered a few inches off the ground and circuited around the room. “Oh, there’s a video dated seven years ago.”

He paused in mid-air and quickly turned to Adam with a quizzical look.

“You don’t have to be here,” Hawkeye whispered to him as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s right,” Stature added from his other side. “We can do this part without you.”

“No, I have to—I uh…” Adam took a deep breath and drew himself up. “He’s my brother; I need to know what happened to him. Play the video,” he said with a curt nod to Iron Lad.

The boy smiled and returned the nod, as if in acknowledgement or respect. Then, he lifted an arm to his side. “Opening video file.”

A beam of light projected from his palm to the wall. There was some wavering in the image as the camera focused in and out of a boy strapped to the wall. Iron Lad scaled the projection up and manipulated the image quality, so that it looked as if the slightly pixelated boy was in the room with them.

His arms, legs, and neck were held back by metal bands, fixing him to the wall in a grotesque crucifixion. His white hair, filthy and unevenly cut, hid his face from view but otherwise all parts of him were exposed.

The boy looked well-fed and healthy, if not for the bruises and scars all over his body. There was one particularly prominent and vile scar—a long vertical line of raised flesh running from the hollow of his throat all the way down to his navel, crossed with shorter horizontal lines at intervals to indicate where the stitches had been sewn. Adam had only ever seen such a thing once: back in the Cube, during the War, and only on non-human subjects; it was the mark of autopsy or, in this case, vivisection. There was a profusion of lesser scars, contusions, and scabs on his torso, where most parts of interest were safeguarded, and every limb bore the marks of experimentation, especially his legs, where chunks of muscle seemed to be missing. Even the boy’s penis looked a little raw and his left testicle had a silvery scar, where an incision had been made.

“Subject Four-Oh-Seven,” a female voice said off-screen with a slight Indian accent. “This is Dr. Anupama working on project IDC3572, subsection 2c: Study on Optical Perception of Speed-Enhanced Individuals. Today, we are performing protocol 34F: corneal endothelial scraping, followed by 34G: retinal extraction. This would be subject’s eleventh surgery in the left eye, after a healing time of four days.”

And then, muttering to someone off screen, Dr. Anupama added, “Make sure to get good clean samples. Results from previous experiments suggest adaptations for light capture in the rods but Dr. Talman hypothesizes the brain does most of the cognitive compensation for perception-adjustment at high speed. Oh and that reminds me, Dolly, schedule a spinal fluid extraction for next week and book the theater for a brain biopsy the day after.”

There was a click followed by a loud buzz as two metallic arms entered the scene from the sides. The boy didn’t so much as flinch as the machine shaved off what was left of his hair, gliding smoothly over his head with mechanical precision.

“Subject Four-Oh-Seven, hold the head up,” Dr. Anupama said.

The boy obeyed. And when he lifted his head, his lifeless green eyes stared directly at Adam.

“Oh, shit. Adam,” Stature whispered from somewhere to his side.

But her voice sounded far away. Right now there was only him and the boy who was his brother staring at him across the ocean of time.

It was Adam’s face. Even without hair, it was his, just a little more angular, sallow-skinned, and thoroughly devoid of life.

There was another click and a panel slid from the wall, just above the boy’s head. A metallic syringe came out, attached to a metal lever which bent at two joints to position the needle right over his eye.

“Hold very still.” A woman entered the screen, short, Chinese, and held up the boy’s chin. She kept her face away from the camera, only flashing it very briefly when she turned to check the alignment of the boy’s head. “We don’t want to damage anything like last time, do we?”

Another click and there was a whirring sound. The syringe slowly moved forward into the boy’s eye.

“Nate, stop,” Hawkeye said suddenly and Subject Four-Oh-Seven and the machines disappeared abruptly.

Her hands were immediately on Adam’s shoulders, pulling him in a tight hug.“We’ll find him. I promise,” she whispered.

“And then what?” Adam asked in a dead voice, dazed, his own eyes now staring blankly at the spot on the wall where his brother had been.

“Then Ruixian will fix him and we’ll rehabilitate him. It has been done before. With the Winter Soldier.”

He let her hold him, though he received no comfort from the gesture. And soon enough, Cassie’s arms were around him too, enclosing him from the other side so that he was trapped between the two girls. Even Nate deigned to join the tableau, hovering closer and placing a gloved hand on Adam’s head in his own way of expressing sympathy. Adam almost expected him to say “There, there.”

A few seconds passed before anyone thought to break the silence.

“Where are you now?” Hawkeye asked. She disentangled herself from Adam and turned back to read the Dorothy Talman file. “What happened to you? And why are you picking out the First Seven?”

“Do you think he escaped, when the Red Skull attacked?” Stature asked, leaning over to read the file alongside Hawkeye.

“Well, the last operation was performed six years ago… he probably escaped way back then.”

“I’m sorry,” Iron Lad said suddenly. “This is a dead-end. Three days here and we still don’t know where he is. And I’m very sorry I put you through that, Adam.”

He had a look of pain on his face, regret and genuine remorse carved in the deep trenches of his forehead. Though whether that was because he had hurt Adam or because he thought they had wasted three days on a lead that had turned up nothing, Adam couldn’t tell.

But it wasn’t all for nothing. Adam knew where to go now, what to do next. He should have noticed it a long time ago but he had been so distracted. By his exile, his plans to run away, plunging back into the Avengers’ world… But the shock of seeing his brother chained up like an animal, bound and mutilated and broken… it triggered something in his mind. He remembered something Hawkeye had said before, an afterthought back in the Roost. It had been lost on him then, when his mind was all fogged up with drugs and injury and no cogent thought could penetrate it clearly.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “I know her. I know where to find her.”

_A pattern, she had said. A pattern. Too circular._

“Who? Talman or Raut?”

“And I know what my brother’s doing and how to find the First Seven. Hell, I even know who spelled my box.” He was on feet now, walking quickly out of the room.

“Wait, slow down, Asgardian!” Hawkeye called out from behind him. He was already rushing through the corridor and, without apparent surprise or effort, she was already trailing his heels. “Who do you know? Talman? Raut?”

“Neither. I know the nurse.”

“Wait. What do you mean you _know_ her?” Stature asked, shocked. She was beside him now too, having caught up together with Iron Lad.

“You know the woman who tortured your brother?” Iron Lad asked, sounding more impressed than surprised.

“Of course,” Adam replied, turning to the boy with a wry smile. “Her husband makes the best waffles.”

 

Le Jardinin the early morning was almost a pretty sight.

It was an old building built on brick and forgotten memory, a leftover from the Japanese Occupation of the 1940s. It had started off as a hospital, Raffles Infirmary, which also doubled as the secret stronghold of a unified British and Singaporean resistance militia. Then, after the war was won and Madripoor was liberated from the Japanese, it was refurbished and repurposed into the Madripoor Museum of Modern History, intended to be something of a minor historical site near the bustling market of Vineyard Road. It made some money, at first, while the wounds of war were still fresh, but two decades later—once the massacre and the rapine had faded from public consciousness—it was redesigned into a public art house for local works, the Galleria Madripoor, which promptly became a national Embarrassment for the next twenty-eight years. 

It was only during the Asian Financial Crisis of the late 90s that the old building found new purpose and began to turn a profit, after it was acquired by one Sim Guan Yuan of the Sim family of Malaysia—a family that had made its fortune in real estate and property development. Guan Yuan kept the paintings and the statues (some of the rooms today retained the awful artwork) and the original flooring and fittings. But he scrubbed the exterior until it was the acceptable shade of gentrified brown, erected tastefully matching brick walls to section the galleries into rooms, and even installed an elevator. When the bandages finally fell away after a year-long restoration, Galleria Madripoor had transformed into the swanky-looking Sim Hotel, which played host to the nouveaux riches, small-time celebrities, and minor dignitaries. Business was good for a while and the young realtor was satisfied with the small fortune that his investment raked in.

And then, in the wake of Madripoor’s construction boom at the turn of the millenium, property value and room reservations plummeted when, to Sim Guan Yuan’s mortification, brown-skinned immigrants began flooding into surrounding Melaka. Sometime in 2007, he sold the rapidly devaluing building to the unwitting Lee Fan Mi, a wealthy and ambitious heir determined to prove his chops to a stoic and stubbornly unimpressed father. It was he who remodeled Sim Hotel into an apartment building and pompously re-re-re-rechristened it _Le Jardin_ , much to the alienated consternation of blue-collared Melaka and the haughty amusement of wealthy Vineyard.

And to the present day, it had endured in this current incarnation. It was still somewhat expensive though not so much for its increasingly out-of-date amenities but for its proximity to the city center. Fortunately, with Jacob’s financial support and his own fair-skinned looks (exoticism, after all, was a matter of local consensus and his whiteness fetched a good price in the local market), Adam was still able to afford the place.

Now, under the gray drizzle of an early Sunday morning, Le Jardin projected an air of its old dignified charm though its snobbish look had been cowed somewhat by the makeshift market stalls that crowded around its perimeter like an aging dowager’s warts. It had been home—for the past three years, at least. And in all the seven years he had spent in exile, it was during those three years in Madripoor that Adam had felt most at ease, most safe, and, at times, even _almost_ happy.

And to think, all this time, he had been living in a nest of mages.

Now the sight of _Le Jardin—_ his home, his sanctuary—twisted his stomach and made him want to retch; his skin crackled with electricity and pent-up fury and his blood boiled with the outrage of betrayal.

The vine-veined façade cut an imposing figure in the gray overcast morning and the very air around the building felt weird with magic, hidden so very adeptly and visible to him only because he now knew to look for it—and even then only very slightly. Adam's hands clenched and unclenched beside him as he stared at the half-crumbled walls protecting the wealthy residents of Le Jardin from the relative poverty of Melaka (for true Madripoor poverty, after all, was assiduously confined to Lowtown).

“Just me,” he said, as he looked through a small circle he’d made with his thumb and forefinger.

There was a small white boy whom Adam didn’t recognize, playing with an old Gameboy on the foyer steps. A few times his attention drifted over to them, quick furtive glances with eyes too sharp and too knowing to belong to a common child. He flashed a shy smile when he saw Adam watching.

“Tough. I’m going with you,” Hawkeye said. “Ruixian too, I bet.”

“And me and Cassie,” Iron Lad insisted, already hovering forward.

Adam sighed and held the boy back by the shoulder. “Wait,” he said impatiently, turning him around. “The whole place is warded. It will only accept mystics.”

“What are you talking about?” Ruixian scoffed. “I’ve been here like a million times.”

“Yeah, well, something’s changed. Besides,” Adam flicked his eyes and gave her a sidelong look. “We’ll need Eli soon.”

“I’m working on it,” she said coolly, though her upper lip curled a little. “The damage is profound and extensive. And even when I’m done with him, I can only give you Eli. Not Patriot.”

Adam turned his head and fixed her the full weight of his gaze. “Figure it out,” he said. “You want to be a superhero? Do your part. We all have to do things we don’t want to do so suck it up. I know that you can do this because you are brilliant and powerful and I have faith in you. All right? So stop making excuses, stop whining, and just do your fucking part, _Synapse_.”

“Fine." Her eyes grew wide at the viciousness of his rebuke.  “Good pep talk,” she muttered. "Kate's right; it's a lousy code name."

“We clear? Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a nice elderly couple to kill.”

He took a step forward and paused when a hand touched his arm. “Young Avengers don’t kill, Adam,” Stature said.

He huffed out an amused breath and turned to her with a sneer. “The Young Avengers are dead, Cassie."

 

The boy insisted on holding his hand all the way up to the apartment. At the foyer he had greeted Adam as Heir Supreme but after that, he made no further attempt at conversation; instead, he spent the time with his face turned up at his guest, mouth agape, and staring rather rudely with wide unblinking eyes that were either impressed or mortified. His features were eclectically Eurasian: slanted eyes, high cheekbones, small but plump limps, and the intimation of what would be a strong jaw later in life. The combination resulted in a rather odd face at this age but somehow, through no stunt of magic or special intuition, Adam knew that the boy would grow into his looks and might even be handsome someday.

He might have missed what the boy was, if not for the wild crop of scruffy blond hair, the color of rippling barley, which seemed to have been cut in haste by an unpracticed hand. That and, naturally, the eyes.

“Has anyone told you it’s rude to stare?” he asked, turning away from the penetrating stare of icy blue eyes. "What’s your name, kid?"

“Popo says I'm not supposed to tell strangers my name,” the boy said as they stepped out of the elevator.

"Timeless advice. But as mages, we usually mean demons when we give that talk to kids. Do I look like a demon to you?" Perhaps a bit of Mephisto still lingered in his soul.

"Does it hurt?" The boy asked. He had a strange way of pronouncing his syllables, something halfway between Singaporean and Filipino, though he seemed to be attempting to reflect Adam's accent.

Adam arched an eyebrow. He lifted his arms to his sides to give himself a quick scan and saw no wounds. “No?" he said, doubtfully.

“It looks like it hurts.”

Adam sighed and forced a smile. “I’m fine, kid.” Today of all days, he had no patience for creepy comments from creepy children.

The boy tugged him along the hallway, all the way to the end where a white intricately carved door was waiting. As they stepped closer, the boy tightened his grip on Adam's hand and his free hand flourished in a series of Forms (none of which Adam recognized), as he muttered a series of clipped syllables. ‘ _Alohomora!_ ’ he whispered to the glowing doorknob, glancing back at Adam and flashing a coy smile.

Adam frowned but he couldn't help but return the smile. _What a weirdo,_ he thought affectionately. Truth be told, he wasn't sure that the 'alohomora' was necessary; perhaps, the boy was just being cheeky. He didn’t respond, when Adam asked, but instead fell back to silence as he opened the door and diligently dragged his guest to the kitchen, where Dolly was already waiting.

She was in one of her better dresses—the white lacy one that Adam had once remarked was 'nice'—and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun by a string of pearls. He seemed to have caught her mid-thought, chewing on her lower lip as her hands worried at the pearl necklace hanging loosely about her thin neck. But as soon as she saw him, her thin lips curled to a smile, as if this visit had been planned and they were just having another Sunday brunch. There were even waffles on the table.

“Come sit, Mr. Thorne. You must have so many questions,” she said as her fingers froze in a tangle of pearls. She saw him looking and quickly withdrew her hands under the table. “Teddy, sweetling, why don’t you go find Gong Gong and tell him our guest’s here? Then, you can go watch some tv, hmm?”

 _Another one,_ Adam thought, unsurprised. He let go of the boy's hand and took the seat opposite the old woman.  _Is the universe mocking me?_

"Yes, Popo!" Teddy said as he took out the Gameboy he'd stuffed in his pocket.

Adam turned away and heard the scuffle of small feet running off.

“Kids these days,” Dolly said ruefully, watching the boy with an expression of fondness. She still had a smile on her face, though it trembled a little on her glossy lips. “Dragging their gadgets everywhere. You weren’t like that at that age, were you, Mr. Thorne?”

Adam didn't respond. He placed his hands on the table, a traditional courtesy between mystics, which the old mage readily mirrored. Behind him, his red cloak billowed out once, in warning, and then fell back heavily.

“I apologize for the small talk, Mr. Thorne,” Dolly said, struggling to keep the smile on her face. “I’m afraid, you see, and that’s how I cope.”

“What are you afraid of?” Adam asked in a slow dispassionate tone, keeping his voice steady. The hair on his arms bristled with rage at the sweetness of her voice.

“What—why you, of course!” she said, her dark eyes growing wide as if this were obvious. “Oh, dear, the things you must think of me!”

Adam let out a slow exhale, focusing on keeping his breathing even and his temper in check. “You tortured my brother.”

“Torture?” She made a squeaking sound and a wrinkled hand flew to cover her thin lips. “Oh, dear... Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! I've done no such thing.”

“I saw you, Dolly. There was a video.”

“My dear Adam, no,” she murmured in a pained voice. Her hands reached across the table to grasp Adam’s but he quickly pulled them back, just out of reach. He relished the look of hurt that flashed in her eyes. “I protected him. Best as I could. They were going to do terrible things to him. Those horrible people in that horrible place. And to be perfectly honest with you, I wouldn’t have cared one bit for a mutant. I am a mage, after all, and I have no love for these impurities.

"But he is your brother, Heir Supreme, and we love _you_. So I protected him, on your behalf. I spared him from the worst of it, whenever I could. Made it as painless as possible, when I couldn’t. I protected him, consoled him, took care of him. Loved him, even! Oh, that you think I’d harm poor Thomas!”

That caught him off-guard. _Thomas_. That was his brother’s name. _Thomas._ Already the sound of it made him feel whole, as if it had started to fill in the cracks that he didn’t know were there in the first place. It warmed him—though only briefly, for fury consumed him again once he remembered what had been done to his brother.

Dolly was on her feet now, shaking and in tears, visibly upset. She brought a fist to her mouth and bit her knuckles. “Oh, my poor Thomas.” Just as abruptly, she collapsed back into her seat and sobbed into her hands. “My poor, poor Thomas.”

Adam stared at her with wide-eyed shock, taken aback by the unexpected display of emotion. It almost moved him to sympathy. Almost.

“You must forgive my wife, Heir Supreme,” Sutan said from the doorway, frowning with concern for Dolly. He was wearing his formal  _batik_ shirt and a pair of black pants. His mustache was even trimmed—something Adam had never seen before—and his black hair was combed back neatly. “These past few years have been hard on our whole Family.” He took the seat beside Dolly and kissed her white hair. “Now, please, let's talk. There is so much we need to tell you.”

“This first,” Adam said. He reached inside his cloak and retrieved Jacob’s box. “I should've realized it was you. You're the only other person who touched it.”

Sutan smiled weakly as he took the box between his hands. “I expected you sooner, Heir Supreme. I left you this clue on purpose.” There was no sound or burst of light; he simply touched the lock and the box clicked open. One of the most complex and sophisticated spellwork that Adam had ever seen and it fell away without so much as a single invoked Form. “But now it's been months. And I’m afraid we're too late.”

“You are of the Seven,” Adam declared, as if in accusation.

“We are," Sutan said evenly. "How did you know?”

“I’ve never seen enchantment that complex. I was right there in front of you and somehow you managed to cast it without me noticing." Adam paused. "How did you do it? That box was in your hands for like a few seconds.”

Sutan smiled again and nodded. “Our line is very old, Heir Supreme. Old as magic itself, if you'd believe our books; we remember the purest ways of casting and many of the forgotten spells.” He reached across the table slowly, respectfully tilting his head, and touched Adam’s wrist. He ran a thumb over one of the bracelets. “But you, Heir Supreme... even without formal education, you’re quite the formidable mage. You are resourceful and clever. This is spirit magic, yes? I doubt they’d condescend to teach their ways to a human, so I’m thinking you reverse-engineered this yourself?”

Adam responded with a brusque nod, letting his eyes fall to where Sutan was playing with one of his string bracelets. “A spirit gave me a spell. It wasn’t too hard to break it down and work out a system inductively. It’s very rudimentary, of course; there's only so much I could parse from one spell.”

“Of course, of course. It's very crude... But still. To work out the fundamentals on your own... Fascinating,” Sutan said. He turned Adam's hand around and studied the line of knots with the focused eye of erudition. “But this is not protection. This is… meta-magic?” His eyes flicked up to meet Adam’s. “So it has finally reached you too, Heir Supreme. You know that magic is fading.”

Adam nodded again, holding back the sudden pang of guilt that might show on his face. “When did you figure out that I’m a mage?”

“The first time we laid eyes on you.”

“How? I was very careful.”

Sutan smiled warily. “Our Family specializes in time magic, Heir Supreme. And you are covered in scars.”

“Time magic?" Adam echoed, frowning. "I've never dealt with time magic.”

“You have, when you created Adam Thorne.”

Adam paused for a while and his frown deepened. He had not expected that response. “That was a memory spell.”

"A shadow, Heir Supreme, a shadow." The old man chuckled, withdrawing his hand as he leaned back and sat up straight. “What is memory but a shadow of time?” he said. His voice had taken on a patient lecturing tone. “Even now, I look at your soul all wrapped up and bandaged, barely held together with staple and duct tape. You’ve done a commendable job, considering, but there’s no way of hiding the wounds of amputation.”

Amputation? Is that what he had done?

“And this construct that you’ve made, this _Adam Thorne_ ,” Sutan went on, shaking his head. “It is highly unstable. Made of ill-fitting fragments that you’ve cobbled together with brute force of magic. The spellwork is genius, I'll admit, and it might have lasted you a while—a few decades, maybe—but now it seems that something has changed... Something is pulling at the seams to disentangle you from Adam Thorne. Consequently, the disturbance has accelerated the construct's attrition and it's already falling apart, your true self alongside it. And now that magic is failing, well… You must make Adam Thorne whole and true soon, Heir Supreme, or it would fracture what is left of you too. It will feed on you until there is nothing left.”

He had always had some awareness of that fact. The moment memories of his old life had begun slipping away, he knew that the weight of the spell would one day overwhelm and cannibalize him. He remembered nothing now... Who had he been before he became Adam Thorne? He must have had a family... friends... people whom he loved and who loved him back. And he had a name, another name that was not Adam, but he forgot it now.

Whoever he had been was now the dream, already forgotten at the moment of waking, and Adam Thorne, the construct, the lie, had usurped its place to become the waking truth.

He was changing, he could feel it; the Rubicon was turning and rushing around him. One day he would lose all semblance of self and find himself fused and inseparable from the mask that he now wore. In all but physical sense, it would be death.

“Magic is failing,” Adam said quietly, pulling himself out from the mess of his thoughts. It was time to change the subject. “You must hate me. This is all my fault.”

“It is,” Sutan said.

“But we don’t hate you,” Dolly added. She removed her hands from her face and blinked back a few times to banish the remaining tears. “You are Heir Supreme and our fate is with you. So, no, we cannot bring ourselves to hate you, no matter how deserved it is. And—and, this whole thing it is our fault too. The Seven had failed in its purpose.”

Adam frowned again. “What do you mean? What purpose?”

Dolly and Sutan exchanged a look and, as if coming to an unspoken agreement, nodded. They held hands on the table and turned back to Adam.

It was Sutan who spoke first. “The reason the Seven exists. It extends all the way back to the purpose of magic itself. Simply put, we exist to serve the Heir Supreme... to shield him and nurture him until he is ready to Ascend to Sorcerer Supreme. And then after, to find new candidates and identify the next Heir,” he explained. “As you well know, it is the Sorcerer Supreme's job to protect the universe— _this_ universe—from outside threats. You see, this is why He is given so much power. This is the secret of all magic, the true nature of magic: it is the universe protecting itself. With the Heir as its focal point during the Ascension, magic incarnates itself in the form of the Sorcerer Supreme.”

 _The true nature of magic?_ Adam thought, scoffing.  _Debatable. Different mages have different theories._ But this wasn't the time to philosophize.

"I protect the universe and you protect me, is that it?"

Sutan nodded. "And because you are magic-become-form, it could be said by the logic of transitivity that our purpose in protecting the Heir Supreme is to protect magic itself."

“So it is clear that the fault is ours,” Dolly continued. She stared at Adam for a while and then shook her head. “It has been so long since we've been needed. Heirs have been Ascending for thousands of years without the Seven and Sorcerers Supreme have been taking charge of their Heirs, as Strange had done with you even though he was not aware of the line of Succession then. Without the Ascension to give us purpose, we became obsolete."

“So you decided to use your magic for personal gain. From servants to aristocrats,” Adam said bluntly. He hadn’t meant it to injure, only to state a fact, but all the same, the old couple seemed as if he'd slapped them in the face.

Dolly nodded, closing her eyes in shame. “Mages or not, we are human too. The Seven forgot its purpose and we used our gift to build our wealth. We abandoned our purpose to serve and instead began to take. The old stories were passed on, our true purpose, from generation to generation, but only in the way of myths. Like a legend or a folktale. Some of the ceremonies of Ascension even survive. But nobody takes it seriously now." She paused for a while and stared at her hands. "And now… look at what it has all come to. Humanity under siege and we've no proper magic to protect us.”

“So you know about that too?"

“The spirits have warned us, though we fear that it is too late. All of humanity is under attack. First the Inhumans, then the mutants, and now, even the larger common population. Everyone except those bearing the touch of magic. For some reason, we have been left unmolested; even as our powers atrophy and we fade, no move has been taken against us.”

“Maybe it's coming from the magical community,” Adam offered.

Dolly shook her head. “This is no magic. It’s hard to explain but if anything, it is the _opposite_ of magic. We have tried, of course, to divine who our enemy is but the only thing we could glean of its nature is the overwhelming sense of _corruption_. No mystic has seen anything like this. No spirit of Earth has seen anything like this. And this is all our fault!” She seemed as if she was about to cry again but she sniffed a few times and the tears were gone.

“Is this why my brother's casting a ritual spell?”

It was his turn to catch them off guard. They certainly did not expect him to know  _that._

"To what? To punish you for your mistakes?" he pressed on. 

“How do you know about the spell?” Sutan asked, glancing at the doorway leading to the living room. He flicked a hand and gestured. The door closed shut and locked itself.

“Did you really think that multiple assassinations among the Seven would escape the Avengers’ attention?”

“The _Avengers_?” Dolly sniffed and sneered. “What do those costumed charlatans know of magic?”

“Nothing. But you forget that I was once an Avenger too. And _I_ know a ritual spell when I see one. ”

“How? This is a spell that has never been cast before.”

“A friend of mine—a _common_ human, you would call her—was the one to point it out, actually,” Adam said. “She said something, what was it… oh, yes, she said that it was ‘circular’. I'vé weakened the Seven’s powers and now my brother's hunting your Families down. It didn’t register at the time because I had brain injury and was really high on meds. But when I saw my brother chained up to a wall, naked and disfigured by Dolly here, I saw it at once. The structure. _Circular_ , she had said. It wasn’t too difficult to see after that. He’s my brother, after all, my _twin_ brother—practically me, where genetics is concerned, and you could even place him as my reflection, my inversion, if you weave your Forms right. A cognate genetic proxy? Come on, it's too obvious. The whole thing smells like ritual magic to me, I just don’t know what it’s for.”

Adam had struck home. He could see it in Dolly’s and Sutan’s eyes and the tight-lipped silence that they now shared. He smiled at them, quietly watched them for a while, and then stabbed a waffle with his fork.

“I have a feeling..." he began, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. His blood turned cold and his fingers stiffened with the urge to punch something. "By the nervous, guilty look on your faces, it seems that you already know that my brother's after you, that you're the ones who took him from Singapore, that you hid him, and that you're the ones using him for this spell." He opened his eyes and watched them. "Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, still smiling, as he brought a small piece of pastry to his mouth. It was crisp and moist, perfect just like how Sutan always made it. “Come on, try.”

Dolly cleared her throat before answering. “We cannot tell you what it’s for. We want to but we can’t. In this, we are sworn to inviolable secrecy, by oath, blood and magic.” She pressed her hands together and lifted the fingers to her lips, as if in prayer.

Adam dropped his smile. In their world, there was no vow more solemn. “Tell me where my brother is.”

“On his way to a gathering of the heads of the First Seven.”

“Where?”

“Cape of Good Hope.”

"Call him back. Now."

"We cannot."

Adam leaned back on his chair and chewed thoughtfully. “Anything else you wanna tell me about him?”

“Nothing more,” Sutan said resolutely.

“Then I'll kill you now.”

“Heir Supreme, no!” Dolly shrieked suddenly, rising swiftly to her feet and stepping backwards until her back hit a counter.

“The Others do not know you’re here,” Sutan said quickly. “Only my Family does. You are safe here, while we live.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Then do it for gratitude. You have been under my protection all these years. Le Jardin… all of Melaka. All this time, my Family has been looking out for you, shielding you from harm. We have been your friends, Heir Supreme, all this time, even when you did not know it.”

“Protection?” Adam raised an eyebrow. “I was attacked in this very building. You allowed my friend to be _kidnapped_  and tortured for a month! Shall I inflict the same suffering on you and call it even?”

“We took your brother in!” Dolly cried hysterically. “We clothed him, fed him, and loved him as our own son! Years before you even stepped foot on Madripoor!”

Adam felt electricity ripple over his skin and he rose slowly to his feet. “Are you telling me—” he was trying very hard not to lose control “—that all this time, my twin brother was living in the same building as me? Just two floors down? All these years?”

“Yes, Heir Supreme!” Sutan said, pushing back against the table and stepping away. He moved closer to his wife and placed an arm in front of her, as if to shield her from Adam.

“You lied to me! You kept him from me!”

The house was shaking now, trembling at Adam’s wrath. Sutan and Dolly huddled and cowered together and stared at the dust falling from the ceiling. Outside, there was an insistent knocking and the terrified voice of a small boy calling for his grandparents. It nagged at Adam and gave him pause, but his rage was so great that he could see nothing else but red.

 _This isn't you,_ a voice inside him whispered.  _Come back. This isn't you._

“He didn’t want to see you!” Dolly said desperately, almost muffled as she pressed her face into her husband’s chest. “We wanted to take him to you but he didn’t want you to see him. Not yet, he said. Not like that! Oh, Heir Supreme, forgive us! But we loved him." She turned to him and lifted her hands again in the gesture of the Mystic's Vow. "We loved and protected him and healed him!”

“Healed him?!” Adam roared. There was a loud ripping sound and a huge crack appeared on the wall to his right. “You mutilated him! And now you have turned him into a weapon!”

Adam raised a hand and the wall exploded outwards, exposing the kitchen to the open sky. “Come! Let me split your decrepit chests open with my bare hands. I promise I shall stitch you back together good as new and we’ll call it even!”

“Heir Supreme, no! Please, we beg your mercy!” Sutan shouted, as his wife howled in fear. “Please! We have not done enough, we confess, and we could have done more! We confess! Mercy, please!”

Mercy, he had the gall to ask, mercy! Did Adam's brother receive mercy? Did _Adam_?

“We are mages, Sutan,” Adam said slowly in a low voice. “Mercy is not our way.”

“Then a deal!” the old man said, lifting both his hands before him in a placating gesture. There were tears gathering in his eyes and he kept glancing at the closed door, where the boy’s desperate knocking was now accompanied by a relentless crying.

“You have nothing to offer me.” Adam took a step forward and lifted a gnarled hand. Magic swirled excitedly in his belly, blunted and broken and corrupt. It was all wrong but he would force it to its knees. He would take it, bend it, mangle it, batter it to the shape he needed, until it obeyed his will.

“I can help you find that which is lost.”

“I’ve lost many things, mage.”

“All of which you can regain with the Ars Notoria!”

Adam halted his advance.

“I know you’ve been looking for it, Heir Supreme,” Sutan pressed on. “And so I have been looking for it too. In service to you.”

Wielders of memory magic. Of course. If anyone knew about the damned Book, it would be them.

“What do you know?” Adam raised a hand and prepared to strike.

“No, please…” Sutan opened his mouth to say something further but it caught in his throat and his face soured in a grimace. When he finally gained the composure to speak again, his voice came quiet and small. “Heir Supreme, please… The child...”

Adam glanced at the door and saw that it was rattling violently. Through the crack at the base, he saw pulses of green light as the boy tried to use broken magic to pry open a path. There was muttering on the other side, in an oriental-sounding dialect that Adam didn’t recognize. And then, when the spell failed, there was a sharp cry, followed by a renewed pounding on the door and an uncontrollable wailing.

“Fine,” Adam spat. “You! Torturess! Get out of my sight. Take the boy and your whole damn Family with you. Run far away and take care that you never cross my path again.”

Dolly turned her tear-streaked face to her husband and stared. There was a moment of shared understanding between them before their eyes closed and their foreheads pressed against each other. Sutan muttered something to Dolly—his last instructions, no doubt—and then, in one fluid motion, the old woman climbed to her feet, eyes downcast as she glided away to her grandson.

“Popo!” the boy cried out when the door flung open.

Adam forced himself to look and saw that the boy was in tears—tiny hands frozen before him mid-Form and shaking in an uncontrollable and exaggerated manner. His whole body was trembling too and his t-shirt was soaked with tears, snot, and what might be the blood that was running down from his ears. Beside him, on the floor, was his Gameboy in pieces.

Dolly quickly swept him in her bony arms and fled the apartment without a word. There was a short moment of peace, during which Adam calmed himself and collected his thoughts, before the boy resumed his hysterical shrieking again.

“What about Gong Gong?” He went at it in a loop, his hysterical piercing voice drifting all the way from the corridor. "What about Gong Gong?"

Adam waited for a few minutes, closing his eyes and focusing on his breath; he could not bear to listen to the boy's misery. Once everything had finally turned quiet and he was sure that the building had been vacated, he turned back to Sutan.

“Now, let’s talk."

 

Sutan shuffled towards the table and sank back in his chair. "Will you spare me?"

Adam watched the old man with cold indifferent eyes. The sight of the boy was still fresh in his mind and for some reason—a reason, which, in fact, he understood very well—he was certain that he would do no harm to the child. And that meant sparing the grandfather too.

"It depends on what you have to say. The Ars Notoria. Now."

“It is a sacred book, Heir Supreme,” Sutan said cautiously. “Especially to my Family.”

“Then you’re familiar with it,” Adam said, returning to his seat.

“I know most than anyone yet still too little.”

Adam slammed his fist on the table. “Out with it, old man, I’ve wasted enough time.”

Sutan bowed. “We have scoured the Earth, as you have Heir Supreme, and found no trace of the Book of Memories. Your mistake had been to assume that it was a book in the conventional sense.”

Adam glared at the old mage. “Fuck,” he muttered as the implications dawned on him. “Goddamn mystical bullshit... It’s a person, isn’t it? The Ars Notoria is a person? That's always the plot twist. It’s always a fucking person with these things.” He rolled his eyes and scowled.

Sutan’s lips lifted in a small smile. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “Though probably not. It could be a place, a spell, the arrangement of stars on a certain month, a certain place seen from a certain vantage point at a certain time of day, maybe even the arrangement of leaves on a tree… or you’re right, it could be a person. He’d have to be very old though—or maybe a family line. My wife tells me that the human mitochondrion bequeathes genetic information matrilineally without the corrupting threat of mutation; the Ars Notoria could be found in that genome. It could be anything, really, anything that could store information.”

“And I take it you’ve already looked.”

“We’ve considered everything, Heir Supreme. Everything that might hold a mystical significance to the idea of Memory. Either the book has been destroyed or it is not on Earth.”

Even Jacob couldn't find it. Adam ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Or it could just be a myth.”

“The Ars Notoria is real, Heir Supreme,” Sutan said with grim conviction.  “My father used to tell me that the Book is all around us.”

“More mystical bullshit. That’s helpful,” Adam mumbled under his breath.

“It exists, Heir Supreme. I scried for the book and I can assure you that it is no myth. I've employed spirits and seers to hazard a glimpse but that didn’t turn out so well for most of us." He released the top button of his _batik_ and pulled the collar to one side to reveal a long angry-looking scar just beneath his clavicle. "We all came back with this mark. Everyone except my grandson.”

“Teddy?” The name came to his lips faster than he could restrain himself. “You risked your own grandson?”

“I’ve always known he was special. The day he was born, he looked at me with those blue eyes— _impossible_ blue eyes, mind you, considering his genealogy—and I knew that he was special, even for a mage. First time he did magic, he wasn’t even a year old. Scared the hell out of us.” The old man smiled and a tear fell from his eye. “He wasn’t always named Teddy, you know? He used to be our little Kris. But after glimpsing the Book, he insisted we call him Teddy from that point on.”

Adam felt the hair on his arms standing on end. There was something there. Was Teddy— _his_ Teddy—connected to the Ars Notoria? Did the Book of Memories hold the answer to the riddle of Teddy Altman? It was too much of a coincidence but Adam couldn’t see the significance just yet.

“What did Te—your grandson see?” he asked.

Sutan swallowed before he spoke. “He said that the book was vast and infinite, that when it was opened it spread out from ground to sky. And he said that there was a man studying it.”

“Did he see the man’s face?”

“No, his back was turned to him the whole time. The only thing he saw was that the man had dark hair.”

A possibility quickly presented itself to Adam. “Is the child a prophet?”

“He bears the signs, yes. You think the man he saw is you? In the future?”

“Maybe,” Adam said with a shrug. “That would mean that I find the Ars Notoria. So yeah, I'm hoping."

“I wouldn’t hope, if I were you, Heir Supreme,” Sutan said softly, respectfully averting his eyes to the table. “Teddy gave me the impression that the man was trying to do something with the Book. And whatever it was, it wasn't working.”

The yellow lights flickered above them as Adam waited for the old man to say more. “Is there anything else, Sutan?” he asked, urging him on.

“Well, there is one other thing that Teddy told me.”

“Out with it, then.”

“I'm afraid it would just annoy you, Heir Supreme.”

“I’m already more than annoyed with you.”

Sutan looked up and gave Adam a small smile. “Very well," he said and cleared his throat. "The boy said that the Ars Notoria can be found nowhere, in the place between places, where people always look.”

“You’re right.” Adam groaned; he hated it when mystics did that. “That _is_ annoying.” He stood up and turned to leave. “Thank you, Sutan. For your protection, for rescuing and taking care of my brother, and for helping me with the Ars Notoria. You have been a true friend.”

He stepped out into the living room and quickly made his way out the front door. He had already spent too much time here and every second counted against a speedster; for all he knew, the heads of the First Seven might all be dead by now.

“Heir Supreme,” Sutan called out from behind him. “Thank you. I—”

Adam raised a hand over his shoulder and without breaking his stride or looking back said, “Leave this place and never show your face to me again.”

Adam left the building quietly and walked back to the gates, where Kate, Nate, and Cassie where waiting for him. Then, once he felt Sutan’s presence flash and disappear, he lifted his arms over his head and sketched his Forms. The strings spun around his arms and legs, modifying his broken magic, contorting it to the correct shape, and filling in the cracks. He uttered a single word in corrupt Acadian—harsh, monosyllabic—and his eyes flashed blue.

And then, he fell. First to his knees and finally to his face. The ground was hard and scraped his skin and the air was so cold he was shivering. But all that was a distant thought. He laid there for a moment, motionless as the rain soaked through his clothes. He imagined that it would soak into his bones too and dissolve him in a puddle.  At some point, a pair of hands grabbed him by the arms and lifted him up.

"Cape of Good Hope," he muttered to Nate as darkness fell around him like a curtain.

Behind him, there was an explosion of heat and light and Le Jardin, his sanctuary, his home, with all its memories and its many names, went up in flames.

 

_He floated aimlessly in the dark, whispering the same thing over and over again._

_“I’m still Billy. I’m still Billy. I’m still Billy.”_

_On and on and on, as the darkness seeped into his pores and ate away at his flesh, until finally, there was nothing left of him too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, i don't know if the last few scenes in Le Jardin worked out as well as I'd envisioned in my head. Let me know what you think!
> 
> A bunch of thanks to everyone who has stuck with me through this fic so far. This is my first attempt at a long fic so I've got much to learn. And thank you for the kudos, the comments, and the chats on tumblr; they've been really helpful and have kept me going. The story has been rather long-winded and self-indulgent but it's about halfway through now and things are about to come to a head soon. 
> 
> There is a very offhand implication of previous prostitution; blink and you will miss it.
> 
> I always seek to improve my writing so do leave a comment, good or bad. Your thoughts, dear reader, are always welcome.
> 
> Talk to me on Tumblr!  
> http://kleos-aphthit0n.tumblr.com
> 
> Next Chapter: Seven


	7. No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does one do when the self is lost?
> 
> This is the part about Love: Love that was denied, Love that would not suffice, and the things that we use in place of Love. 
> 
> Here, a friend is scorned, a lover is lost, and broken souls find refuge in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This was supposed to be the first half of a larger chapter "The First Seven" but I realized that this half stands better on its own, thematically speaking. So, here's an early chapter. Following the momentum of the previous chapter, things get a little dark and messy with Adam. Anyway, let me know what you think. 
> 
> Some warning: there is hate-fucking in this chapter; I'm still not 100% sure it was the right call to put it in the narrative instead of just leaving it offscreen. If that isn't your thing, stop reading at "Are we fucking or sharing feelings?" and begin again at "I think I made you melt."

He drifted in and out of sleep and always the dream was the same: empty darkness stretching in all directions and a precious word whispered in desperate hallowed tones, always forgotten in each moment of waking.

Every time he opened his eyes, there were faces hovering over him, faces lined with worry, muttering susurrus sounds that were too low and too soft for him to make out. Kate, Ruixian, Cassie, Nate, sometimes even the inebriated Sami… they took turns, in groups, watching over him as he vacillated between waking and sleeping, like a restless pendulum swinging endlessly—pointlessly—inside a vacuum clock.

He ignored them for the most part and when he finally woke, he opened his eyes slowly, experimentally, even though he had already been properly conscious for a few minutes. He was relieved to see that there was no one sitting by his cot.

“Hello.”

But of course _she_ was there; she was _always_ there, even when he didn’t want her.

He didn’t answer. Maybe if he kept quiet and closed his eyes again, she’d think he’d gone back to sleep and she’d—

“I know you’re up. I felt the change in brain activity. It’s all neurons, you know? All electrical impulses.”

 _Ah, well. So much for that_.

“Where are we?” he asked. Slowly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, groaning as he let his back fall against the wall where it made an audible _thump_. “How long was I out?” He slunk down and slouched until the posture was comfortable. There was nothing he could do for the mild pounding in his head.

“Somewhere on the Indian Ocean. Approaching Madagascar.”

" _Over._ "

"What?"

" _Over_ the Indian Ocean." She hated it when he corrected her grammar; it reminded her too much that they came from different places. And to her, he suspected, that raised the possibility that they may never truly understand each other and therefore, never truly belong together. But he wanted to give her an out, an excuse to get pissed at him so she could get up and leave without looking like an uncaring friend.

"Fine. We're somewhere  _over_ the Indian Ocean," she said, and he could hear the roll of her eyes in her tone. "Approaching Madagascar."

Adam nodded, not bothering to look to where her voice was coming from. The ship was frigid and the cold nipped at his skin through its metal body, and the whole place stank with sweat and alcohol.

She didn't seem to be leaving so there's that. Nobody could say he didn't try.

“How long?” he asked again, drawing his hood over his head. He looked around and saw that they had placed him at the back of the deck, hidden from view just behind a half-wall and far enough that he couldn’t hear Cassie and Kate’s conversation in the cockpit.

“Just three hours.”

“What are you doing here, Synapse?” He let bile saturate his voice; this had been a long time coming now and it was time to get it out of the way. Exhaling softly, he drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. _God,_  he was so tired, and for a moment the exhaustion distracted him from the task at hand. But he couldn’t sleep—or rather, he didn’t want to, not anymore. There was nothing there for him anymore, only darkness and silence. And Teddy never came anymore, so what was the point to any of it now?

“You know, I think I’m not gonna go with Synapse,” Ruixian said conversationally—almost too casually—as she broke through his reverie. She knew that he didn’t want to talk but she was determined to push; she must think herself a great friend for doing that. “Kate’s right; it’s a little _off._ For me, at least. And did you know there’s already a Synapse? Inhuman girl. Telepath. Died some years back. She was also an Avenger—not that I am. An Avenger, I mean. Well she was sort of an Avenger? Some unity squad thing that Sami said was an affirmative action thing. Like some political correctness PR campaign—his words, not mine! Inhumans, mystics, and mutants all on one team. Anyway, I don’t think I wanna be Synapse anymore.”

Adam really didn’t care. _God, could she talk._ “You’re so annoying,” he said nastily, without any trace of playful teasing.  

But Ruixian simply barreled on, like she hadn’t heard him. Or she had and she was simply electing to ignore it anyway. She couldn’t accept that he needed to be alone—to be away from everybody, _including her_ ; she probably imagined she’s tearing down his walls or something weepy like that, and that at some point he was gonna break down and fling himself in her arms. Probably slamming his fist against her chest until he gave in to sobbing. Then after that, maybe, he'd finally see her for the great girl that she truly was and how everything he'd been looking for was right there in front of him all along and then he'd fall in love... Adam smirked at the thought.

“…and like you were the one who gave me Synapse. I think I should name myself. I don’t want my whole thing to be defined by my connection to you. To be defined _by you_. So I’m thinking I’d call myself Hacker.”

Adam sighed impatiently. When he replied, he kept his voice slow and uninterested. “What are you doing here, Hacker?”

“Waiting for you to wake up,” she said glibly, in that irritating playfulness she had, like it should be obvious to him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “How’s Eli?” 

“It takes time, Adam.”

"Dammit, Ruixian. You were supposed to get him ready."

“I know, I know. I'll get there. It just takes time. But I’m learning so much. And my powers are still growing. I’m starting to realize that so many things can be controlled just by manipulating electric potentials.”

Adam opened his eyes and stared at the floor. He had always known that she was a powerful mutant. Her electrokinesis was weak in terms of brute strength and she would never be able to summon lightning bolts like he could, but her true power lay in her precision. Couple that with her near-instinctive understanding of biology and electronics and it amounted to a great and fearsome power; if he were a sword, then she was a scalpel.

“You know,” she said slowly. _Carefully_ , like she was testing the waters. “I think I can even shapeshift now. I think I can even—”

“I don’t love you,” he said firmly, with surgical coldness possessing neither cruelty nor compassion. He already knew where she was going with this.

She was quiet for a while and there was no sound but Eli’s occasional muttering and the clinking of glass against a metal surface (Kate must have given up on keeping Sami away from the liquor cabinet). When she replied, her voice came out in a tiny croak, like she was on the verge of tears, “I think I can even become a—”

“Which part of it escapes you?” A soft exasperated chuckle escaped his lips and he brought his palm to his forehead, pressing hard on his temples with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t love you, I _cannot_ love you, and I will  _never_  love you.”

There was a sudden rustling somewhere to his left—the sound of someone getting up and leaving—and he was finally alone.  _There. It's done._ No more confusion between them. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this but she was too tenacious and just didn't know when to give up.

It was a pity, it truly was. If he were being honest, Ruixian was the most important thing to him. He loved her, he truly did; he loved her more than anything in this world, just not in the way she wanted. And it was just so damn tragic that he would give her everything in the world except this. Not this. This was the last part of him—the true _him—_ that still survived. His heart wasn't here. It was on another world, somewhere far far away, and it had blue eyes and blond hair. And neither Ruixian nor Adam Thorne would take that away from him.

He enjoyed the peace, knowing it wouldn’t last, and took out Jacob’s box from his cloak. He went for the dossier first, as was his habit every time the box came, and flipped through the names. It was only when he reached the end that he realized that he couldn’t remember whom he was looking for. He went through the list again—backwards and forwards—breathing hard as he read out each name on the list.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he said aloud with mounting desperation.

Finally, he closed the folder, released a deep shuddering breath, and punched the metal floor a couple of times in frustration. He gathered the papers and flung them across the deck. He watched them fall and scatter on the floor, making meaningless patterns. Quite impulsively, he cast a spell, and the papers went up in flames and quickly turned to ash. 

Adam rested his head against the cold wall, closing his eyes as he wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of his lips. He had the urge to throw up, but he felt too weak to walk to the bathroom so he fought to keep it down and swallowed back what little that managed to climb up. A few minutes later, he felt a displacement of air to his left and someone sat beside him.

“You okay?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug in response.

It was Cassie. Of course it was. She was Ruixian _à la blonde._ Like Ruixian, whose core personality seemed to be empathy and the desire to help even those who didn’t want it, Cassie was the adoring one. And so, just like Ruixian, she was always there, ever ready to sooth and console.

But unlike the other girl, Cassie did not intrude herself on him. She knew well enough to leave him alone and to let his black thoughts take their course.

So she simply sat with him, content to let the minutes pass between them unprofaned by the vulgarity of words. A dreamy silence followed, like someone had cast a spell over them and they had drifted off and marooned on Lotus island. Finally, when he felt he was ready, he turned to her and smiled apologetically.

“That was cruel,” she said.

Adam sighed. “She has to give it up.”

“What happened to you?" _Here it comes. The signature Cassie Lang guilt trip move. This is just like the War, all over again._ "The Adam I knew would never hurt his friend like that.”

His eyes grew wide as he scoffed and chuckled. “You never knew Adam, Cassie,” he said bitterly. “The person you knew was someone else. Someone with a different name. I’m not him anymore.”

“That’s still you,” she said quietly.

“Not anymore.”

He said it matter-of-factly, with facetiousness that would hide the bitterness and the regret. But she must have seen through it, because he felt her hand on his arm and for some reason, he let the touch comfort him.

"Then who are you?"

He didn't know. He was no longer that person that Cassie remembered but he wasn't Adam Thorne either. No, not quite yet. He was somewhere in between. He was neither.

 _I am no one_.

“I can’t remember my name,” he said after a while, breaking the stupor. “I used to remember the last name but I can’t anymore. Everyday I would say it to myself, over and over, just so I won’t forget but now it’s gone.” He turned to her with a sad smile and added, “Even Teddy’s gone. He won’t appear to me anymore.”

To truth of it, once spoken aloud, was a punch to the gut. He was wrong; everything was lost. Even Teddy.

“There’s nothing left of me now,” he said quietly. 

“Oh, Adam.” Cassie slowly drew him in her arms and locked him in a tight embrace. Like the rest of them, she was sour with the stink of day-old sweat but her touch was soothing and grounding and he melted into her. “I'm here,” she cooed, rubbing small circles on his back. “And when you forget, I’ll remind you.”

She was warm and solid and real and soon he found himself clinging desperately to her shirt, sobbing weakly against her neck. It was suddenly hard to breathe, each gasp coming quick and shallow, like a stab to the lungs.

“You are brave and strong and heroic,” she said. “And sweet and gentle and _good_. You are good, Adam Thorne. You are _good_.”

But that only made it worse.

 

She left him at some point, only to be replaced by Kate, who was then followed by Nate. They took turns keeping him company, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, trying to cheer him up or at least give him some form of distraction from his own spiralling thoughts. Ruixian never once came, of course. She kept her distance and worked on Eli. Adam did feel a little remorseful about the whole thing, now that he had sobered a little, and it was clear to him now that after losing Teddy, some part of him—the part that was so overwhelmingly Adam Thorne—had simply wanted to lash out at someone, to break someone's heart and hurt them as much as he was hurting. Ruixian just happened to be a convenient target, because she was there and because she loved him.

And that was the unforgivable part. He had taken someone's love for him, turned it into a weapon, and used it to hurt them.

 _I am become Adam Thorne_ , he thought to himself, burning with shame.

 ~~~~And in the end, it was Sami who knew how to give him reprieve.

Nate was with Adam, trying his best to regale him with his adventures through space-time in the months (years to Adam) since his expulsion from the Young Avengers. Nate must have thought that this approach was working because he had a stupid grin on his face and Adam was staring at him and nodding along.

In truth, he was staring at Nate’s young face out of spite and jealousy, wondering how it was that the boy who was destined to become Kang had turned out to be the least damaged of them all. There was Eli, who was their most obvious casualty, Kate the jaded Avenger, and of course Adam, who had mutilated his own soul to escape persecution from people who had been his friends. And then there was Cassie, Nate's great love, whose spirit had been so crushed by the War that she simply disappeared from the world. But Nate, this powerful time-travelling toddler, despite all his failures and all that had been done to him by the world and his heroes, still had the twinkle of hope in his eye.

He was just like Adam, betrayed and abandoned, yet here he was, talking and smiling and completely whole. How was that fair? 

“Salut,” the Sami interrupted. Nate had just pulled out the police report that Jacob had left inside the box. It was quite an old one, about a school Tommy had allegedly destroyed nearly a decade ago, but there was a photograph appended. Useless information now, only more fodder for sentiment and misery.

From the corner of his eye, Adam noticed Sami ambling over, so he turned his face away and pretended to look at the the picture—a stolen shot of Tommy in his early teens racing on a playground, a cheeky grin on his face as he turned back to look at something outside the frame.

“What's happening?” Sami asked, crouching down beside Nate. "Why’s everyone coming here?” He was holding a transparent bottle by its long neck, vodka this time by the smell of it on his breath.  _God,_ why was there so much alcohol on this plane? Wasn’t there some sort of regulation against this?

Nate studied Adam for a moment, as if to check if he knew what was happening, and then turned to Sami to whisper something in his ear. And wasn’t that just fantastic? Adam was the ‘unstable’ one now. Even lower on Nate’s scale than the barely functional alcoholic who had wet and crapped his pants in the Sanctuaire.

Sami listened carefully, eyelids drooping and face placid as if he were completely lucid. Deciding that the Inhuman was sufficiently distracted, Adam snagged the bottle from his hand and took a quick swig.

The liquid was cool and had the sharp bite of a top-shelf drink (he expected nothing less from Hawkeye's personal stash). He had always hated the taste of vodka but he liked how it _felt_. His gullet felt raw and skinned but he enjoyed the burn down his throat anyway; he liked especially how it warmed his stomach and eased the pain in his head. He wanted to float. To fly again.And so he drank. Again and again and again.

“Hey!” Nate cried, eyes wide with rage as he snatched away the bottle from Adam. “We need your head in the game!”

“There he is,” Adam muttered, sneering. “The _real_ Nate.” He lunged for the bottle but Nate stretched his arm overhead, keeping it out of reach. There was about a few fingers left sloshing around at the bottom.

“Focus, Adam!”

Adam’s eyes drifted momentarily to Sami, who had been watching behind Nate with a look that might be amusement. Something had changed in the Inhuman’s eyes and Adam thought he was about to smile. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t; it had been a while since smiling Sami had smiled.

“Give it!” he said, turning back to Nate.

He stood up abruptly and shot Sami a sharp look. “You take care of _this_ , then,” he said with a disgusted look on his face, waving his hand vaguely over Adam.

Adam watched him turn his back and leave, walking away with the bottle in his hand. He looked over his shoulder just as he took his seat beside Cassie and gave Adam a disappointed shake of his head.

“ _Such_ a fucker!” Adam said as loudly as he could, lolling his head on his neck. He caught Sami's eye again and laughed, like they'd just shared a joke.

He raised a hand, poised to retrieve the bottle with magic, but he felt Sami’s hand closing over his fist.

“They are children,” Sami said, in that strange accent of his. “All of them. They think they can fix you with words and hugs.”

“And you think you know how to fix me?” Adam retorted, flinging Sami’s hand away with a rough flick.

“I don’t care about fixing you.”

Adam leaned back and glared at the ceiling. He was already starting to feel woozy. Good.

“The fuck are you still doing here, then? _Va-t’en._ ”

Sami stared at him like he was dumb, sighed too deeply, and then gently shook his head. “You want to keep feeling like shit?”

"I thought you don’t care.”

“I cannot exaggerate the immensity of my apathy.”

A beat of silence. Adam didn’t respond. There was a sudden turbulence, when the ship hit an air pocket, and he thought he might throw up. 

“Your problem is that you think you need to remember," Sami went on. "But what you need is to forget."

"Sage advice from a career alcoholic. Just go away, please."

Another pause. And then Sami replied, more quietly this time. "And I think we can distract each other.”

"Ha!" Adam snorted and turned slowly to face him, expecting a sneer or a smirk. But instead, he found dark eyes staring earnestly back at him.

“You’re joking, right?” he deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

“I never joke about fucking.”

It was crazy. Other than himself, there was no one on the ship whom Adam loathed more than Sami; in fact, the very first time Adam had laid eyes on him, he already fucking  _hated_ Sami. Stiff and starchy Sami with his fucking smile and his fucking suppressor collar. Adam would much sooner strangle him with that fucking collar and put him out of his misery than  _fuck_ him.

And yet, despite the unimpeachable logic of this train of thought, Adam felt his eyes wander. As a person, Sami was garbage. But as a thing to be enjoyed... well.

There was no denying that he was a classically handsome man and even sloppy and drunk and unwashed, he somehow managed to be devastatingly debonair. Tall, well-built, with short black hair that he kept swept back in formal fashion. He had deep-set eyes, thick brows, and a strong jaw. On the right side of his upper lip was a small scar, which Adam only noticed now that he was leaning forward and just inches away from his face. It was a shallow cleft, hardly visible, but also very sexy once you've noticed it.

 _And,_  he spoke French! Weird French but it didn't sound too alien. He also knew things like wine and cheese and history because he was a cultivated man, prim and proper. And the very idea of fucking  _that_ was undeniably magnetic.

Adam had a sudden picture of Sami, a wild imagination that he was the coddled son of an oil baron, and in this picture he was sauntering listlessly inside a mansion in Dubai, wrapped loosely with swaths of silks and decked with the regalia of Emirati aristocracy, the soft soles of his bare feet making quiet thuds on the cool marble floor. He had the looks for it, definitely, and he did carry himself with the injured pride of a disenfranchised heir. 

Adam licked his lips. “I—I don’t think—”

“That's right. Don’t.” Sami leaned forward, bringing his face close to Adam’s, and dragged the tip of his nose upwards along Adam’s cheek. Adam could feel warm breath ghosting on his skin, chasing the trail left by Sami’s nose. It was noxious and wet, heady with vodka and morning breath. “Come on, Adam,” the Inhuman slurred, pulling back Adam's hood with a slender finger. “Give it up.” His teeth scraped the skin over a cheekbone and found an ear, biting hard, pressure just shy of pain. “I can make you melt.”

Adam shivered.

And Sami smiled.

 

There was no foreplay. No stroking. No blow jobs.

Sami had dragged him inside the bathroom and their clothes flew off in a frenzied rush. It was chilly, even colder than out in the deck, and there was a mild ventilating draft too, which prickled his bare back and coaxed goosebumps to erupt on his skin, but it was the only place in the open-plan ship that could afford them privacy and there were automated spritzers that intermittently released a pine-scented air freshener, which would serve well to hide the odor of their bodies. Besides, he knew that soon enough, the cold wouldn't matter anymore.

The Inhuman was already hard, his monstrous cock standing proudly from a bush as neatly trimmed as his own beard; it was on the long side but thankfully not too thick, slightly darker than the rest of his brown body and with a perfectly formed head. Adam knelt, wanting to take it in his mouth, but Sami pulled him up by the elbow and forcibly bent him over the sink.

“Excited, are we?” Adam teased.

His heart was racing and a voice inside him was begging him to stop. This was wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong!_ But the alcohol had already made it to his blood and everything else was dull inconsequential murmuring in the background. His head was no longer aching but swimming now. He felt dizzy, but the good kind. He wobbled on his feet.

Sami groaned and rolled back his head, rubbing the head of his cock against Adam’s hole. Adam watched the reflection in the mirror: well-defined chest, abs, strong arms. The perfect specimen of a good lay. And beneath it, his own body, pale and scarred and shivering. 

With his free hand, Sami opened the cabinet over the mirror and rifled through the things inside. He knocked over a few things, sent them tumbling to the floor, before he found a bottle of Vaseline.

“Hey, you’re too big. That’s not going to—”

“Shut up,” Sami said, a little too harshly. A hand pressed against Adam’s mouth, too rough and too hard but he couldn’t bring himself to protest. “You talk too much, mutant.” 

He heard a wet slick behind him and then Sami was bending over, covering his back with warmth. Sami's sweat poured from his chest, dripping on Adam’s back. They were both filthy and hadn’t showered in days and yet, even pressed together like this, Adam did not find their combined odor as repulsive as he'd imagined; they smelled like proper natural men, strong, powerful, untamed.

Then, he felt arms encircling his waist and the head of a cock slowly, painfully, breaching his entrance.

“I’ve never done this before,” Sami said breathily, just an inch from his ear. 

“Sex?” Adam asked, astonished. He couldn’t believe it. Barring subjective moral principles, Sami was too attractive to be a virgin.

“Sex with another man.”

“Oh. Then what the fuck is your cock doing inside my ass?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even like you.”

“Now who's talking too much?”

“In fact, I think I actually _despise_  you.”

“Fall in love with me for all I care. Are we fucking or sharing feelings?”

With a deep groan, Sami bit Adam's shoulder and shoved his full length inside.

Adam gasped in shock. His hole burned at the sudden entry and his back arched up reflexively. He bit hard on his lip, holding back the screams, and felt hot tears streaking down his cheeks.

“You took my home from me!” Sami cried out suddenly. “I had a life there! And you took it!” He was fucking with wild abandon, aggressively, unforgivingly, slamming his hips so brutally that Adam had to brace himself against the sink so his head wouldn’t bang against the faucet. "I was someone," Sami sobbed. "And now I am nobody."

The pain was astonishing. It was like being repeatedly stabbed in the gut. There was a sharp tearing sensation and blood might be running down his legs but Adam couldn’t be sure. He took in deep breaths, denying the pain and focusing instead on his own neglected cock, which, despite the agony, remained hard, dripping and bobbing heavily between his legs. He tried to bear down his weight on Sami, something he'd learned to ease the pressure, but it had been so long since someone had used him so callously and his body could not immediately accommodate Sami's size.

“Fuck, this is so good,” Sami said, increasing his speed and tightening his hold on Adam, making it difficult to breathe. “I deserve this. I fucking deserve this.” After that, he began mumbling in French, too quick and too vulgar to catch. His body dripped profusely over Adam's back, drenching, soaking, and whether it was sweat or tears, it was impossible to tell.

It might have been the excitement or the alcohol or just the sheer loneliness of it all, but soon, pain gave way to pleasure and Adam heard himself moan. It still hurt like hell but Sami had found a rhythm and had angled his cock so that he hit Adam’s prostrate with each strike. Adam whimpered at the sensation, eyes rolling back as he gripped the edge of the sink. With one hand, he reached down and started pumping his own cock.

“Harder!” he yelled.

Sami obliged. He leaned back up, separating his chest from Adam's body, and fucked harder. He used his cock like a weapon, prodding and stabbing savagely. With one hand, he pressed down on Adam’s back and slowly traced the spine until he caught Adam's hair. “You like this, mutant?” He groaned, suddenly pulling. Adam cried out as his head was violently bent back. It was too rough and they were going too far, but he couldn't make himself stop; he liked it far too much.

At the very least, he liked the idea of it. Of what it meant, which was nothing. Sami fucked mean and vicious, lashing out with no regard for anything but his own enjoyment. There was no doubt in all this, no uncertainty, because there was no meaning. That this was just sex, primal and visceral, without the distraction of human connection. Sex so thoroughly divorced from sentiment, with every superfluous particle of affection boiled out to leave only the untainted distillate of raw physicality. Pure, unbridled, Grade-A heroin.

“You like this mage?" Sami demanded, his face an ugly sneer in the mirror. "You like me inside you, fagg—”

Adam stood up straight, suddenly slamming his right hand over his shoulder and around Sami’s throat. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice. “That word isn’t yours to use.”

He elbowed the Inhuman off him and, twisting on the spot, drove his fingers into his solar plexus. Sami gasped at the sudden assault and stumbled a few steps back. And with a quick kick to the side of the knee, Adam sent him down, crashing on the cold floor as he clawed his neck for air.

It was a pretty sight, he had to admit, Sami curled up into himself in pain and gagging quietly. He used his foot to roll Sami over on his back and pulled back his bent legs so that his erection pointed at the ceiling.

In one fluid motion, Adam straddled Sami’s cock and impaled himself to the hilt, groaning as he placed one hand on Sami’s chest for support and wrapped the other one around the Inhuman’s throat. Sami really was handsome, prince-like even, and he looked especially beautiful when put in his place on the floor.

A fist came out of nowhere, hitting Adam square in the jaw. And then another, which he deftly caught by the wrist and flung to the floor where it made an audible crack.

"Let go of my neck," Sami hissed. There was a wild look in his eye—terror, defiance, a challenge. Or _need_. It was hard to tell.

Adam rolled his head, spat blood to one side, and waited for the vertigo pass. He began moving slowly, milking Sami's cock with long languid strokes. “Do you _like_ this?" he asked breathily, licking a long wet stripe across Sami's cheek. "Should I _stop_?”

“Yes… No…” Sami’s breath hitched. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“Then, you’re a faggot too.”

“ _Tais... Toi..._  Just. Fucking. Shut up!” He met Adam thrust for thrust, the soft pads of his fingers digging into Adam's flesh as he held him by the hips to quicken and synchronize their movements. Soon his chest became too slippery so Adam shifted his hand to the side of his head; he tightened his hold on the Inhuman’s throat, feeling the suppressor collar dig into the meat of his palm.

At some point, he noticed that Sami had closed his eyes and that his face had taken on a stiff tranquility. That pissed him off and he slapped Sami's face hard with the back of his hand. There was something terribly funny about that and it made him laugh for a second.

"I know that look," he panted without breaking their rhythm. "I _use_ that look. You fuck me with your eyes open, got it? You look me in the eye and you  _stay here_  with me."

Sami glared but he kept his eyes open and, from that point on, never once looked away from Adam's face again. Soon, his thrusts grew irregular and syncopated and he began pounding Adam with greater and greater force, slamming his hips upwards with such brutality that he had to lock his arms to keep Adam from slipping. “Fuck, fuck,” he mumbled, his dark eyes rolling back in his head. And then suddenly, he was driving Adam down into his cock and he was thrusting upwards to meet him. His whole body stiffened and he shuddered, once, twice.

Adam felt Sami’s cock bury itself deep inside him, growing even harder for a moment and then pulsing a few times. As Sami came inside him, Adam squeezed his throat and studied his face with detached curiosity: mouth opening in a silent scream and eyes squeezing shut as if he were in pain, locked somewhere between panic and pleasure. At some point, Sami’s arms weakened and fell away, leaving bruises on Adam's hips; his whole body was trembling with the aftershock of his orgasm and his glistening chest rose and fell as he panted.

His hips sank back down, in an attempt to unsheathe himself, but Adam chased the movement.

“Not yet,” Adam said, leaning down close to Sami’s ear. He wasn't going to give him time to recover. “I’m not done with you.”

With that, Adam straightened up and rode Sami, hard and merciless with as much speed as he could muster. The Inhuman struggled and squirmed under him, gasping wide-eyed against the agony of friction against his oversensitive cock.

“No more, please, no more,” he cried out, pushing away feebly at Adam’s chest. "In a while."

Adam swatted the hand away. “Not yet. You’re not done.” He rode Sami for a few more minutes, ignoring the weak groans and half-hearted pleas.

" _Un moment_..." Sami moaned, his polished French accent slipping into something guttural and more musical. His eyes fluttered as his hands reached to down to comfort his abused cock. "Please... It's too sensitive right now..."

But Adam was lost now. He was well and truly drunk, on sex, alcohol, and despair. On pain and power. There was nothing in the world to feel but the extremes of pleasure and pain, so he threw his head back and accepted them both. He took pleasure for himself, without conscience and without mercy, and savored the pain that must come with it. There was nothing but the suffering cock inside him and his own ecstasy building, nothing but the pleasure that he gave Sami and the burn that he received in return. The world was flesh and his soul was nothing more than darkness and lost memory.

He was nobody. He was nobody. And somehow, even within the swirling haze of pain and pleasure and alcohol, a stray thought broke through. He was Odysseus lost at sea, in pitch-black chaos, storm-tossed and bruised, and the only thing real was the ship under him. The only thing that was solid and grounding. A ship with no name. And so a ship that was no one, just like him.

He chanced a glance at Sami's face and saw that his eyes were scrunched up in pain. But he was smiling, a feral defiant grin that clung to his face. He needed this as much as Adam, the pain and the pleasure both. And Adam would give as much as he would take.

The others wouldn't understand. They were someone, all the lot of them: Avenger, hero, survivor, defier of Fate. They didn't know what it was to have everything ripped away and to be reduced to nothing. To be no one. He and Sami, they were the same. Two broken pieces shoving themselves together to force a fit. And in the violence of that collision, was the hope to fill the parts that had been chiselled off.

Adam rode Sami ruthlessly, grunting every time he slammed against the Inhuman's hips. When he looked back down, he was surprised to see that his cock was already dripping so he stopped and with a final thud, buried Sami inside him one last time. He didn't even notice that he had already came. Under him, Sami was wincing and in tears, covered in Adam's cum.

“I think _I_ made _you_ melt,” Adam said, slipping off the still-hard cock with a grimace. He was sore and shaking all over but at least he didn't seem to be bleeding.

Still panting, he looked down and admired his work. Sami's legs were splayed open in a most pornographic display, jellied and made weak. A muscled arm was bent over his head, ending in bleeding knuckles and a fist, while the other reached down to soothe his deflating cock, which had turned slightly pink with overuse and twitching in synchrony with his wincing face. His brown body was gleaming with sweat and there were thick spatters of cum on his chest hair, where Adam had made his mark.

The sight of it was intoxicating. Here was a magnificent man, spent and conquered on the ground, his battered body painted with Adam's seed like a Pollock painting. There was a long white streak, running obscenely from his left eyebrow to his trimmed beard, crossing his tightly pressed lips at a sharp diagonal; his tipped face, twisting with disgust at having another man's semen on his skin, stared unwaveringly at Adam, his dark hateful eyes filled with accusation. The full sight of this defilement, of something beautiful so gloriously ruined into indecency, was so far removed from the straight-laced host who had greeted them in the Sanctuaire Chamonix. And Adam, drunk on the knowledge that he was the cause of such desecration, was smirking triumphantly.

Yet somehow, much like alcohol, the same absolute vulgarity of it also made him want to retch.

He offered Sami a hand and helped him up. They didn't speak with each other, whether out of shared shame or just mutual disinterest, Adam didn't know. Nor did it really matter. They put on their clothes in silence and when he was done, Adam fell back to the floor and leaned against the wall. He massaged his legs, which had cramped horribly from exertion, and touched the left side of his chin where he had taken the brunt of Sami's fist.

"You are one mighty fucker," Sami said, sitting half-naked beside Adam as he fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pants. He had cleaned off the cum on his face but there were still droplets matting his chest hair.

Adam watched the smoke billow out in puffs, filling the air with the smell of nicotine and tar, and had a sudden longing for a stick of his own, something to distract him and to preoccupy his hands. But it felt presumptuous to ask. "Is this why you're always here?"

Sami tipped his head to give him a sidelong glance and shrugged. "Nothing to do but smoke and masturbate." His voice came out a little hoarse and there were bruises on his throat marking where Adam's fingers had been.

This had seemed like a reasonable idea at first—the logical and _inevitable_ conclusion to a progression of events. But now, wallowing in the sober stench of post-coital shame, all Adam felt was an overwhelming emptiness, punctuated in turn by thoughts of ' _more, more, more!_ ' and ' _never again!_ '.

“Hey,” Adam began, already hating himself for asking. “Stay for a while.” He even tried a small smile.

Sami stared at him as he pulled on the same unlaundered white shirt—gray now—with one hand. His other arm hung limp to his side, the hand probably broken when Adam had slammed it against the floor and now useless without the adrenaline of sex. He didn't respond until he was done smoking. “Why? I’m tired now. We can do this again later." He put out the stub on the floor and flicked the brown remains into the bin.

Overhead, there was a clicking sound, followed by the hissing release of aerosol. It smelled strongly of pines and antiseptics and it diffused slowly, heavily, spreading to chase away the odor of sex and cigarette smoke, though it could do nothing to cover the guilt of what they'd done.

"I mean..." Adam said lamely, twirling a hand in the air to disperse the spray. "Just... hang out with me. For a while. I've got some spells to cast and I could use some company. I could even teach you magic, if you want?"

Sami regarded him coldly, studying him with dark indifferent eyes, and kept quiet.

“I just…” Adam placed the wandering hand on the cold floor, tracing idle fingers along the carvings he’d made a few days ago. “I don’t know. Just… Just stay. All right? Please?”

Shrugging again, Sami got up and strode off to the door, never breaking his perfectly placid face.

“Like I said, I don’t care about fixing you.”

He left without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In lieu of the events of this chapter, I feel obligated to say 'always practice safe sex'. Also, coitus with a fractured psyche is ill-advised. Make good choices.
> 
> I know that things got a little... out of hand with Adam (as what often happens when alcohol is imbibed in the middle of an emotional crisis) and I received mixed reactions from people who read through the draft. So, uh, let me know what you think?
> 
> I always seek to improve my writing so do leave a comment, good or bad. Your thoughts, dear reader, are always welcome.
> 
> Talk to me on Tumblr!  
> http://kleos-aphthit0n.tumblr.com


	8. The Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam deals with post-coital guilt as the team races to protect the Seven from Thomas.

Adam watched the water swirl between his feet, down, down, down, through the narrow grills of a rusted drain. He could feel it washing away the sweat and the stink and the sex, making him clean again. Hot… Scalding… Gentle, soothing pressure…

 _It’s nice_ , he thought absently. He listened to the sound of water pelting the metal floor and watched the steam rise like mist, obscuring his body.

Slowly, he brought his hands to his face and studied his fingers; they were shriveled, wrinkled things now and for a moment, he thought he was decades old. He wondered, without lamentation, where his youth had gone and found that he could not remember. He was a withered thing now and the years had fled him and he was tired and done. His was a life better wasted, he concluded happily—and if it meant forgetting all the terrible things he had done then so much the better.

It was a nice illusion. Everything was over now. He could rest. But as with all things make-believe, the sweet figment inevitably crumbled to bitter fact.

It was the bite of vodka in his mouth that yanked him back to reality with a rude crash.

 _I am young again,_ he thought mournfully, doubling over with a sudden tightening of his stomach.

He fell on all fours, his nose hovering just inches from the drain as his body expelled the poison it desperately needed.

This was a form of cleansing too, he supposed. A purge to remove all the bad stuff.

Like a beggar seeking alms, he cupped his hands to catch the water, waiting patiently as he watched his palms fill. He washed off the sick from his lips and drank a little too, only now realizing that he was thirsty. He gulped and swallowed hungrily, until he felt full and his distended stomach began to protest.

 _It hurts,_ he thought absently.

Throwing up had brought an acid burn to his throat and there was still a soreness between his legs. But the sharpness of the pain helped ground him... kept his thoughts from drifting too far and unravelling the delicate threads that kept his mind together like a tattered piece of moth-eaten tapestry. Shivering, he fell to his side and let out a slow exhale, feeling dirty all over again as his skin hit the floor. He watched his hands again and wondered if that feeling of filth would ever go away. Perhaps it would always be like this. Perhaps his body would always be dirty… until his hair grew white and his hands were wrinkled.

He got up and scrubbed his skin for a third time, using purifying salts to peel off the grime… scouring the flesh until it felt raw and exposed.

 

“Let me in,” pleaded the voice from the other side of the door. “Come on.”

Adam opened the door slightly and stared at one of Nate’s brown eyes peering through the crack. “No. Go away.”

“But I need the bathroom!” He had been banging his fist against the door for the past ten minutes but Adam had been steadfast in ignoring him.

“Go in your suit.”

“I can’t,” the boy whined. “Not with Cassie there.” His eye flicked quickly to one side and returned to Adam’s with a look of great urgency. He was on his feet, bouncing, and his hands were cupped over his crotch.

“Fine,” Adam said, huffing as he opened the door all the way. “But I’m staying inside.”

Nate pushed past him and rushed for the toilet. “Fine by me.”

“You know she’s like five years older than you now, right?” Adam said as he locked the door behind him.

“I know,” Nate replied. He turned his head to look at Adam as he lifted the toilet seat.

“And you’re what, sixteen?”

“ _And a half_ ,” the boy said indignantly, even puffing out his chest. The sound of his piss hitting water punctuated the ridiculousness of the pose.

Adam rolled his eyes. “Right.”

He stalked back the sink and made a show of studying the mirror where he had been redrawing the sigils for a ritual spell. Covertly, he threw darting glances around the room and quickly checked for stray articles of clothing, unwiped stains, or any other leftover sign of sex. He winced as his weight shifted between legs, remembering the pain of Sami with a mixture of triumph and regret.

“Age is just a number,” Nate said readily, his reflection frowning in the mirror. By the impatience in his voice, it sounded like he was making an old argument.

“Uh-huh.”

“A social construct built on an arbitrarily defined local consensus on how to quantify maturity.”

Adam couldn’t help but grin, feeling a little nasty and condescending. “It sure is, buddy.”

The boy was right, of course—strictly speaking—though the barb of this particular blade of logic cut both ways, a fact which he conveniently left out. Nate was sixteen (and a half), well within the age of consent in _some_ countries. And sure, it was all just a matter of custom and legality, another fact that was undeniable in the strict academic sense, but the inevitable conclusion to that argument was that if youth didn't necessarily tantamount to immaturity, then age could not guarantee maturity either.

And Nate… he didn’t just _look_ young, he _felt_ young. Like he hadn’t grown up at all in the two years he had spent alone in the timestream. He was rougher at the edges, sure, a little traumatized maybe, and definitely _angry_. But he was _still_ just a kid. He moved like a kid, laughed like a kid, and blushed like a kid. He thought and hoped like one too, which was perhaps the saddest thing about this whole Future Kang business. And despite the supreme antipathy he had for the Avengers, Nate still had hope he could be saved... that he could be a hero.

And wasn't that just so fucking childish and tragic?

He would play with time, just as he was doing now, and he would tweak history and move worlds to defy fate—to avoid _growing up_. And so, one had to wonder, could the boy who had all of time and space at his fingertips ever really grow up?

"And the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain that controls inhibition, decision-making, and other higher-order cognitive process—doesn't fully develop until the mid-twenties. So if people are so insistent on  _maturity—_ "Nate said the word in a low rolling voice, accompanied by a roll of his eyes "—then we should pitch the legal age at twenty-five."

Adam smiled. "You're not helping your case here, man."

“Ergo,” Nate said, lifting a finger. “Age is just a number. A convention, like the number of hours in a day. Or that maps should be drawn North-up.”

“Totally.”

Nate paused his diatribe and glared. “Pot.”

Adam allowed himself a chuckle to concede the point. Nate was right; with that whole thing with Teddy, who was Adam to judge?

“So what’s up with you two?” he asked, steering the conversation to friendlier waters. “Are you like… dating again now? Are you sleeping together?”

“No,” Nate said immediately, almost too insistently, his face flushing a deep shade of red. The sound of urination stopped momentarily and resumed haltingly.

“Maybe not a great idea to bring up Cassie right now,” Adam said, laughing and scrunching up his face at the same time. “Please don’t get an erection while I’m here.”

He tried to remember how he had been when he was sixteen (and a half!), if his body had been hypersensitive to stimuli as books and television seemed to suggest, but he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not!” Nate protested. “We’re not like th-that. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Adam said with an amused smile. It was strange and it was a testament to how mightily fucked up everything was but Nate and Cassie, all things considered, probably had the healthiest relationship on the ship. “I’m glad you’re not. Don’t take this the wrong way—I mean far be it for me to judge—but I’m just—” he paused and frowned, correcting the angle on a sigil on the mirror as he chose his next words “—it makes me happy that there’s someone on this ship who’s doing this right. I’m glad you’re not being stupid and rushing into things.”

“Like you and Sami?”

His eyes snapped to Nate’s reflection. “Fucking Sami told you?”

“No. I _heard_ you,” Nate said with a grimace.

Adam sighed and pressed his fingers on the left side of his jaw, where a bruise was spreading. Purplish and yellow, it felt tender to the touch. At least the rest were on easily concealable spots.

“It didn’t seem like the girls did," Nate went on. "If that still matters to you.”

“It does, thanks. And we’re not ' _rushing into things'_ ,” Adam said with exaggerated air quotes. “Because to do that there has to be ' _things'_  to rush into, which there aren’t. I have zero interest in Smiling Sami.”

"Okay but SmilingSami is also  _Sexy_ Sami."

Adam's left eye twitched. "And Sexy Smiling Sami is also  _Stockholm Syndrome_ Sami."

Nate snickered. "Nice."

"Thanks."

“You’re still being stupid.”

“Fuck that guy, seriously. I can’t stand him.”

Nate frowned and shook his head. Then, he looked away thoughtfully, his face smoothening into a sober expression, and seemed to make a decision. Quietly, as if he were afraid of being overheard, he turned his eyes back to Adam and asked, “Did he tell you?”

There was something heavy in his voice and Adam paused to study Nate’s reflection. “Tell me what?” Very carefully, he picked up a handful of pomegranate seeds that had been marinating in a plastic cup and cupped them in his palms. Then, he bit his tongue until he tasted blood and spat in his hands.

“We’ve lost all communication with the Sanctuaire.”

“Oh. Well, that explains things.” He rubbed his hands together, making sure to coat the seeds generously with spit and blood.

“Be careful with Sami, Adam. The guy can melt the ship with his mind.”

“So could I. And you’re not handling me with kiddie gloves.”

“You’re not broken.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

He took in a deep breath, inhaling as much as he could, and blew into his palms until his lungs ran out of air. He felt his eyes glow for a moment and the seeds grew warm. There was a flicker of blue light in their cores, pulsing in time with his own heartbeat.

“Just be careful, all right?”

“Always am,” Adam said, pocketing the seeds. He had never had reason to cast Persephone’s Grace but he was pretty sure it worked. He turned on the faucet and began to wash his hands.

“And, come on. Did you _have_ to—" his eyes shifted left and right and his voice dropped to a whisper "—did you have to make love with him?”

Adam snorted. “ _Make lo—_ God, you’re such a child.” He rolled his eyes and huffed. “I don’t know, man. Give a guy a break. I was— _am_ drunk and he was there.”

“Should you be doing magic when you’re drunk?”

“It isn't a big spell; I’ll be fine. And it wasn’t like you were volunteering yourself,” Adam returned with a smirk. He bent down the sink to wash his mouth, keeping his unwavering gaze on Nate.

Nate pursed his lips, looked thoughtful, and stared gamely into Adam’s eyes through the mirror. “Well, had you asked…”

Adam almost choked. He raised a pair of impressed eyebrows at Nate’s reflection and studied him for a long moment, assessing, sizing the other boy up, before they both burst out laughing.

“Oh, wow, it jokes,” Adam said, standing upright and wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes.

Though if he were being honest, he was a little relieved to find that there were still lines he wouldn’t cross. Nate was just a kid, after all, and destined to be the most prolific mass murderer in all of space-time—not to mention, Cassie’s. Adam was _sure_ he didn’t feel a scintilla of attraction for the boy. Nothing. Nate was just a friend— an _underaged_ friend—and not even a particularly close one at that. In any case, even without all that, he wasn't the sort of good-looking that got Adam going anyway.

That realization exhilarated him. Fucking silver lining! Perhaps he was not the soulless monster he thought he was. He couldn't imagine ever touching Nate…

Then again, he could have sworn the same thing about Sami.

“Are you done yet?” he asked, before his thoughts could ensnare him and pull him under. “Have people in the 31st century evolved bigger bladders or something?”

“I’m done. I’m done.” Nate reached for a panel and flushed the toilet.

He joined Adam at the sink to wash his hands and for a while, they were both quiet and there was nothing but the lulling hum of the engine in the background. Adam took out a booklet to look for any other spell that might be useful.

“Cassie and I,” Nate said tentatively, his eyes fixed on his soapy hands. He had been scrubbing them for the good part of a minute now. “It’s never gonna happen.”

“What? Why?” Adam said in a monotone voice as he flipped through the pages of the book. He still hadn't decided how interested he was in their soap opera. “I mean sure there’s the age thing but after a few years that wouldn’t even—”

But Nate wasn't listening. “I figured it out,” he said, barreling over Adam and shaking his head. “This is how I don’t become Kang.”

That caught Adam's attention. His eyes flicked up from the book and turned sideways to watch Nate scrupulously rinsing his hands. “By leaving Cassie?”

Nate nodded slowly, turning his head to look at Adam with a small smile. “The way I see it, everything Kang does comes from his refusal to accept history as it is—or rather as it’s meant to be.”

 _Meant to be?_ The thought of it was distasteful. It sounded too much like giving up. Too wooly and superstitious and _weak_. Adam felt an instinctive aversion to the idea.

“I’ve always thought Kang’s agenda was simple," he said. "Become king. Or emperor or something.”

Nate nodded again as he closed the tap. “Yes but that’s all just a symptom,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants.

 _Symptom of what? His ‘refusal to accept history as it is’?_ Adam couldn't bring himself to consider that answer. There was something off about it, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. And it smelled too weepy and sentimental to be the simple truth.

He frowned as he carefully considered his next words. “That sounds a little fatalistic, don't you think? Just lie down and stop fighting?”

“Well, when you say it like that…”

“And a little paradoxical. You don’t become Kang by accepting that you _will_ become Kang? How does that work?”

Nate grinned and shrugged. “I don’t really know. But I could show you the math some time. It’s just a hypothesis but it checks out. It’s the only possible solution that cancels out the Kang event.”

“Okay,” Adam said uncertainly. Strange had been rigorous in his mathematical training, a necessary foundation for frameworks of Formal magic, but he wasn’t sure it was enough to understand time travel and causality. “Why are you telling me all this?”

_Acceptance? Is that really the key here? Could this be the key to Adam Thorne as well? To Teddy?_

Nate averted his eyes to the ground. “I want to ask you a favor.”

_Ah. Of course. Here we go._

“What kind of favor?” Adam asked, voice suddenly sharp and guarded.

“When I leave… can you make Cassie forget? About me?”

Adam’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “You’re kidding! Memory magic? You do realize that that’s what started all this, right?” He raised a hand and twirled it around vaguely. “You should know the dangers.”

Nate looked back up and frowned. “She has already lost too much, Adam. I don’t want to be another bad memory.”

“So you’d rather lobotomize her? All the talk about not becoming Kang… and now this?"

“What? Wait. No, no, no,” Nate said, eyes widening and hand pushing back at Adam’s chest. He had a determined look in his eye, as if he had already thought this through and had rehearsed his arguments. “You don’t need to create something new like Adam Thorne. You just need to excise me from her memory. Clean and simple. So it wouldn’t be as dangerous,” he insisted. 

“You say that like it’s _just_ brain surgery.”

“Please, Adam, for Cassie.”

“You can’t just go around obliviating people, Nate,” Adam said emphatically; the hypocrisy of it was not lost on him but Nate was smart enough not to bring it up. For good measure, he added, “It’s very unethical—not to mention incredibly costly to all parties involved.”

“Which is why I wouldn’t ask you to do this if there were any other way. Please, Adam. For Cassie."

“ _For Cassie_ ,” Adam repeated slowly, closing his eyes and shaking his head. This was wrong, he knew that, but he felt too weak and uncertain of himself to argue. In the end, the look of dejection and desperation on the boy’s face had all but whittled his resolve and made him sigh. 

“Please?”

“Fine," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "Maybe. But only if she wants me to.”

“But—”

“No but’s!” With a sudden huff, he brought his hand through his hair. “That’s my condition.”

Nate chewed on his lip as he considered this. “You promise?”

“I promise…” He seemed to be making a lot of those these days. He remembered Maria and the oath he’d made her. “That I’ll think about it— _if_ she wants me to. Choice has to be hers, Nate.”

“Okay,” Nate said, looking relieved, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders. “I can live with that.” He placed a hand on Adam’s arm and squeezed. “Thank you.”

“This is so wrong, Nate. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” he said. “But… for the greater good.”

Hah! “Spoken like a true Avenger.”

Nate winced. “Ouch,” he muttered. “You don’t have to hurt my feelings.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” Adam rolled his eyes. He kept his voice conversational as he turned back to the symbols on the mirror and set back to the task of repurposing them. “So you're gonna leave us again? I know Kate and I did not exactly welcome you back with open arms but we’ll still miss you... I think.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nate said shyly, looking at his shoes and kicking at nothing on the floor. “I’m thinking of leaving you one of my suits, though.”

“Really?” Adam asked, impressed.

“Yeah. I’m working on a project to animate it. Something like the Vision. So that even when I leave, there would still be something left of me to protect you guys.”

 _And that part of you would finally be the hero you’ve always dreamed to be_ , Adam thought to himself, smiling as a feeling of warmth spread through him, chasing away the emptiness and hopelessness that had sunk in his soul like a stone.

This could all work… It really, _really_ could. If Nate were right… Maybe he didn’t have to become Kang. Maybe he could finally defy destiny in that dubious, self-contradictory way of his. Who was Adam to argue with math anyway?

And if Nate could sacrifice himself and find peace like this, then maybe Adam was wrong; perhaps there was hope for all them. For Kate and Ruixian and Cassie and Sami. Even for Teddy. Or Thomas.

Maybe even for Adam Thorne.

“I’m happy for you, Nate,” Adam said, sounding less sincere and hopeful than he felt. “I’m glad you’ve found happiness…  or peace… or whatever this is.”

Nate gave his shoulder a light punch. It was hesitant and clumsy and it was obvious that the gesture was not natural to him. But the boyish grin on his face was genuine enough. “Thanks bro—, du—, uh, man," he said awkwardly. "Hey, you’d find yours too. I’m sure.”

Adam shrugged and returned the smile. “Yeah, me too,” he lied.

But for now, he felt happy enough for the both of them. His life was a mess, broad strokes of grisly and violent and miserable, but if it were punctuated by small moments like this, then perhaps it wasn’t too bad. He could learn to live with that.

“But not today.” Still smiling, Adam turned back to his book and rechecked the required Forms. “Now, get out. As much as I enjoy bonding with you, I have a spell to cast and I don’t think you wanna be here and watch.”

“Why not?” Nate pouted, sounding a little hurt. “I could keep you company.”

“It requires blood—”

“I can handle watching you bleed, Adam.”

“And sweat and, uh, some other bodily fluids.”

Nate frowned and looked at him blankly.

Adam stared at the boy, a little incredulously. "You know..." He made an obscene gesture with his hand, coaxing Nate to the rest of that thought.

But the boy only raised a confused eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. He was gonna make Adam say it. _God_ , the kid’s so lame.

“And semen, all right? It requires semen. Can you handle watching me—”

“Okay! Okay!" Nate exclaimed, raising his hands. "I’m going!”

Nate left, red-faced and wide-eyed, and Adam turned for a second to watch him. He was embarrassed as hell but he found himself smiling and chuckling, wondering when exactly he had become so fond of the boy who would be Kang.

 

The ship made landfall on a narrow rocky beach hidden in the shadows of a tall headland. The first thing everyone noticed was an islet far out at sea, smacked right on the horizon, a blocky disruption in the curving line where sea and sky met. There was a thin strip of land, three miles or so in length, connecting the shore to that landmass, and from where they stood it seemed to divide the sea into two equal halves. It had the look of having been laser-cut, sharp edges straight as a ruler and a smooth, flat surface. It was clearly a road, no more than a few feet wide and an inch or two higher than the surrounding water, but far too perfect and too straight to have naturally formed. It must have been magicked into existence for the express purpose of connecting the beach to the islet and, even without Seeing, Adam knew that there was no other way get to the islet but through this bridge.

Whatever arcanum was at work here was ancient and completely alien to him. He tried the Forms of Seeing and Watching and even Hearing and Listening, but no matter which permutation he tried, the result was always the same: nothing. _There is no magic here,_ his spells were telling him, but his own human eyes told him a different story. On either side of the land bridge, the water was perfectly calm, like the surface of a black mirror reflecting an overcast sky. Even the temperature was strangely lukewarm—or rather in uncanny and disconcerting thermal equilibrium with the skin—and the very air was still. It was as if they had fallen inside an oil painting, where everything was thick, frozen, and quiet. Adam spoke a few words to test for any local warping in physics and the sounds he made came back magnified to a startling decibel. There was a light drizzle too but the sea made no ripples; just the same, he threw a pebble experimentally and saw the water swallow it quietly without so much as a wrinkle on its smooth surface.

But there were shadows moving in the water, shoals which were somehow only visible at the very periphery of the eyes, darting and flitting quickly in between dark masses that must be coral. Adam cast his Sight deeper into the water and Saw the bones of drowned men and sunken ships and what he suspected was a Russian submarine. Deeper still, he Saw stranger things: merfolk with their half-fish half-human thoughts, giant squids, singing ice-veined naiads, and a strange species of fish covered with small swiveling eyes that must have evolved alongside the surrounding magic of this strange sea. And then, deeper still, in the utmost darkest depths, Adam Saw something vast and ancient and thirsty stirring sleepily.

He snapped back to himself with a terrified gasp when he realized that it was Looking back.

“Terrible idea,” he said, coughing. “Really. All of you should stay back.”

“That bad?” Stature asked beside him, her voice too loud in the still air. “The place gives me the creeps.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Adam said, keeping his voice as low as possible (though it reverberated too loud just the same). “I can’t See _anything._ It’s obvious there’s powerful magic here—all of you can see that—but all my spells are telling me that there’s nothing. How will I protect you if I can’t even See the spells they’re throwing at us?”

"Why would they throw spells at us? We're here to help."

"It's called 'being prepared', Iron Lad," Adam said irritably. "We need contingencies!"

Hawkeye clapped him on the shoulder twice and began to cross the bridge. “We’ll manage. Now, come on.” Synapse—no, _Hacker_ now—trailed behind her quietly, followed by Iron Lad, and then Stature. 

“Hey, I’m not kidding. There are major forces at work here. Forces even I don’t understand,” Adam said, trailing after Stature. He knew it was futile anyway. “This is very irresponsible Hawkeye,” he pressed on when no one replied, his voice a loud indignant sound in the quiet sea. “You should all turn back.”

“You can’t go alone, Asgardian,” Stature said with forced cheerfulness. “So just suck it up.”

“And the last time you went on your own, it ended with arson,” Hawkeye added from the front of the line.

He knew it was a long shot but he couldn’t avoid the momentary pang of frustration anyway. With a huff, he relented, glad that he had taken the pains to secretly deposit the pomegranate seeds in their pockets before they’d disembarked the ship (the blessing would work much better if it had been unknowingly received so he was a little worried about Hawkeye). He had even left one with Sami, who had been fast asleep when they’d left, and another with Eli.

He watched his feet, carefully planning each step to safely navigate the narrow land bridge and just in case the traps were hidden in the soil. He wondered what would happen if he fell in. Maybe he’d simply float without disturbing the liquid’s smooth surface, or maybe he’d sink in but slowly like tar or quicksand or some other non-Newtonian fluid, or perhaps the sea would simply swallow him whole as it had with the pebble.

“This is too dangerous,” he said again in vain, glancing at Hacker briefly. They were some distance across now and the continental mainland was already a diminishing blot behind them. Even out here, where there should be winds and large undulating waves, there was nothing but that same eerie stillness. Overhead, the sky was a gray wash with thin unmoving clouds, strangely wispy and feathery like watercolors. The drizzle had turned to rain but the sea remained as placid as ever.

“This place is only for mages,” he added.

“Well, too bad,” Hawkeye said, sounding distracted. “The muggles are going.”

Adam groaned, defeated, and redirected his energies to Watching for anything that might be dangerous. They crossed slowly and carefully, paying particular attention to where they placed each foot, urged by an unspoken agreement that no one should touch the water—or even pass a stray body part _over_ it; it was almost an instinct, or a primordial animalistic understanding, that if they fell in they would become part of the same stasis that they were now traversing. For a long time, there was nothing but the roaring sound of their breathing and pebbles and seashells crushed under their boots.

But soon enough, they found themselves out at sea, the peninsula an imperceptible dot behind them, and to either side of the land bridge, there was nothing but that vast unmoving ocean. It was like being on another world, a planet in its infancy where there was nothing but silence and the dark unfathomable waters.

 _Still waters run deep_ , came the thought to Adam and it made his hackles rise. _And there, ancient life resides._

“We have to move faster,” he said suddenly, breaking through the lethargy that had befallen him.

No one replied.

“Hey!” he called out again but nobody turned to look.

They had about a mile left but everyone was standing still, rooted in place and bodies turned to either side of the bridge, glassy-eyed as if watching something in the distance.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Adam muttered. Then, he saw it too: blue and gold and beautiful—oh, so beautiful—and vast and powerful… approaching… approaching… approaching...

He blinked…

 

… _and the world’s heart beat again._

_There was a sudden wind, cool and fierce and welcome, blowing through his hair and sending his cape up in a red flurry. Soil. Heat. The faint smell of something sweet._

_He looked around and saw that the strange sea had disappeared, turned instead into a gold expanse, rippling into the distant horizon and then ever after still. Above them, a deep sky blazed blue with cloudless, sunless light._

_Billy saw him there, in the distance where gold and blue met, a figure approaching in faded blue jeans and yellow-stained white t-shirt. Billy's heart lurched at the sight of him and the twin weight of relief and remorse were so crushing that he almost fell to his knees._

_All thought abandoned him, save one:_

There you are, at last.

_“They shouldn’t be here,” Teddy said, voice cold as ice._

_“You came,” Billy said breathily. The tears sprang to his eyes and he couldn’t hold back his hands, reaching forward, begging._

_“Stop that,” Teddy said, leaning back slightly. “Please. Just stop.”_

_He had spent so much time in the dark, floating alone as he slept. All those hours, years, millennia, crafting the speech to vindicate himself, stringing together the proper syllables of repentance, and practicing indignant declamations of innocence. But in the end, at the sound of Teddy’s voice, all words fled him._

_“You came,” he said again._

_A look of something unreadable flashed across Teddy’s eyes. “I had no choice,” he spat out, and Billy could see his skin shifting slightly to hide the violent emotions underneath. “I had to come.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Billy finally managed to say. “Please, Teddy, I—”_

_“Are those Cassie and Nate?” Teddy asked, blue eyes flitting to Billy’s right, where the two were standing stiff as statues._

_“Yes.” A small, jealous part of him was mad that they had followed him here, in this secret place that was his and Teddy’s only._

_Another look, indecipherable, hidden away from Billy. Carefully, Teddy's gaze turned further down the line. “So that must be Kate and—who’s that?”_

_“Ruixian.”_

_Teddy nodded and turned back to him._

_“You’re under attack,” he said plainly, eyes clear as day._

_“What?” Billy looked around again, quickly and purposefully, and saw nothing but the golden world of Teddy._

_“Out there. You’re inside a trap.”_

_Billy remembered. The memory came to him slowly, gently, but he couldn’t bring himself to care right now. Here was Teddy and that was all that mattered. Everything would work out now. If only the words could come to him. Words… Words! Fucking words! They had so much power and he had none. With the proper words, he could fix things and then he could stay here. Forever. Words—his words, especially—could make it so. Teddy would let him stay and they’d be together. Forever. As it was meant to be. As_  he _had meant it to be. How could he care right now what happened out there?_

_He wanted to say all this but he didn't know how._

_“I felt it so I came for you,” Teddy said._

_“Teddy, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, you have to believe me. Let me fix this.”_

_Billy waited for Teddy to shout at him… to turn his head or push him away as he had done… or to grab him by the shirt and kiss him senseless... or to even hit him! To… To… Something! But instead, Teddy only looked back, eyes soft and half-lidded and his face perfectly calm. He was quiet for a long time._

_“You made me,” he said finally, without emotion, with neither accusation nor bitterness. With the same tone, he might have said that the sun rose in the east and set in the west._

_“I did.”_

_“And then you threw me away.”_

_“Teddy, I—”_

_“Like I was nothing.” Teddy’s gaze sharpened and pierced into Billy’s eyes, never wavering._

_“Please, just let me do this.”_

_“You can’t always get what you want, Bee. No, not even you,” Teddy said. He was breathing hard but he pressed on, carried forward by the momentum of hurt and spite. “You think_ _my whole existence revolves around you and that I have no purpose other than that. That... that I can't find my own purpose. You think that I'm this... this..._   _this_ toy _that you made. That because you made me, I'm different from other people. That I'm_ less _than them_ _. Less of a person. That my existence is less worthy. Less... less... less_ valid _."_

_"Teddy, that's not—"_

_"Don't you get it?" Teddy's face wavered a little and through the cracks, Billy glimpsed something of the anguish underneath. "You made me and then you threw me away like trash. Do you get that? You don't get to apologize for that._ _" He paused and his bottom lip trembled a little. "So this is me exercising the free will you gave me. I can't be with someone who thinks so little of me. I have my own story too a-and you don't have to be a part of it anymore."_

_“Give me a chance," Billy said softly. "Teddy, Please."_

_Teddy closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. "I won't let you hurt me again. You don't get to have that power over me."_

_“You said you love me!” Billy yelled._

_“I do.” Teddy’s eyes were hard and cold as ice. “And that’s what bothers you, isn’t it?”_

_“No, no. Not anymore. Listen, please. There’s a book,” Billy said urgently before he could lose courage. “The Book of Memories. I can use it to…” But the rest of it drifted away from him._

_Words. Fucking words._

_He saw Teddy’s hands clench into tight fists, blue eyes turned to the ground._

_“It’s time for you to go,” said the boy who was memory. Longingly, he looked one last time at Kate and then at Nate and Cassie, where his gaze lingered. “Take care of our friends, Bee.”_

_“Teddy, please! I can fix this. Let me,” Billy pleaded, his hands reaching out and tangling into Teddy’s shirt. “Teddy, please,” he said again. “I love you.”_

_Then Teddy’s eyes flicked back to meet his and for a moment the mask fell away. Teddy looked old, his face lined and tired, with the ravaged, ashen look of someone who had not slept in days. His hair, his beautiful golden hair, stuck up in messy clumps, as if he had been pulling on them with his fists, and his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and filled to the brim with hurt and anger and something else that was soft and bruised that Billy could not bear to name._

_Just for a moment it was there, the blinding, heartbreaking truth, and then the mask fell in place again. Teddy was smiling again, radiant in his untouchable, unreachable beauty, his blue eyes bright and shining… just the perfect affectation of melancholy peace, of bittersweet acceptance._

_Gently, he wrapped his hands around Billy’s wrists and pushed him away._

_“Goodbye, Billy. I loved you. I really did.”_

_And then Billy was falling into the earth, swaying golden stalks rushing up as it swallowed him in its impossible depths. His hand reached out one last time, as the breeze and the heat kissed his face. Above him, the world contracted and fell away like a tunnel’s mouth receding._

_The last thing he saw was a pair of eyes, watching him disappear. Though on second thought it might just have been the sky._

 

There were leaves, he suddenly noticed... small brown leaves that were dried up and delicate and clinging to the edges of the bridge. They buoyed up and down, slowly, hypnotically, like tiny boats lost at sea. And when he looked closely, he saw that there were _tiny_ ripples where they touched the surface, spreading thinly and dissipating into stillness just a few inches from the source—much quicker than untampered physics should allow. On either side of the bridge, the sea ebbed and flowed, like the heaving chests of a thousand dying beasts. He knelt down slowly and peered closely at the surface. No reflection.

“Oh, fuck,” Adam said again, as realization hit him. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.”

He unclipped his cloak and, in a panic, made waving expansive gestures with his arms. It floated at first, sluggishly and unwillingly, and then began to circle the group lazily, as if adrift in a slow-moving stream.

“Godfuckingdammit.”

He layered the Forms as fast as his fingers would allow and he blurted out the incantation for a Kinetic Enchantment. The cloak resisted for a while and only minutes later, after further coaxing, did it finally come alive and respond. It floated slowly above them, spreading itself taut and then began to spin, gaining, gaining, gaining speed until it was a red blur overhead, whipping up the air in a frenzied wind. Around them, the water flattened slightly into a concave well, splashing chaotically at the circumference.

“Run!” Adam screamed as the other began to stir.

“Wha—?” Hawkeye slurred.

“Now, Hawkeye!"

Then they were off on a deadsprint, covering as much ground as they could with long careful strides while making sure not to put too much distance between each other. Adam’s cloak shadowed them from above, spinning protectively like a scarlet sun.

"And whatever you do, _don't_ look up!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Adam had never felt so terrified. Not when he was in the Cube, not when Stark threw him in a cell, not even when he woke up to Mother's hungry teeth-lined throat over his face. There was something horrifying in the space above them, something old and deep and massive, and it only made his skin crawl to know that he absolutely had no idea what it was. 

“Dammit, Hawkeye, hurry up!”

The effort of maintaining the cloak at such speed was exhausting him faster than he'd expected; he was already starting to feel light-headed. If they didn’t get across soon…

“What’s happening?” Stature asked urgently as they increased their pace. Her ponytail bounced limply behind her, as though it was made of heavy wires instead of hair. “Why are we running?”

“The water,” Adam huffed, his thoughts slipping and running too quickly for his mouth to turn to words. “In the water.”

She risked glancing over her shoulder and when her eyes met his, her face froze. “Asgardian…” she said. “You’re crying.”

He turned away from her, averting his gaze to the ground. Using the heel of his palm and perhaps with more roughness than necessary, he wiped away the tears.

“But nobody touched the water,” Iron Lad said.

“Just run!” Adam snapped. “We’re almost there!”

They must have sprinted for a few more minutes, legs burning with sustained effort and eyes fixed on the ground. Whatever it was that was trying to hold them there, Adam could feel it on the back of his neck, breathing, grasping, trying to find purchase. And he knew that if he turned back to look, he would go mad at the sight of it.

“When I give the signal, everyone jump in the water.”

“But you said—”

“Goddammit Iron Lad, just listen to me!”

Ahead, the islet loomed high over them, bleak and rocky with all the cliché look of a pirate’s den. It might have even looked like a skull if you squinted. Its face was the yawning mouth of a cave, sharp teeth of stalagmites and stalactites. A pair of stubby towers, seemingly carved out of the very rock, crowned the cave’s upper lip. Each of these towers had a window overlooking the landbridge, set aglow with orange candle flame. In truth, the islet seemed more like a collection of haphazardly constructed outcroppings, like large smooth stones piled together by the hand of a giant child to make ribbed towers that thrust precariously toward the sky and made ominous creaking sounds against the violent beating of waves behind.

Almost there...

Adam watched Hawkeye closely. He had to time it precisely or they’d all get stuck in between.

Almost... And—

“Now!” he screamed and everyone leapt in the water.

There was a loud hissing sound as their feet broke through the surface, followed by the horrifying feeling of lungs filling with liquid. There was a split-second moment of panic when he doubted that he’d made the right call. And then, suddenly, there was that sickening feeling of being turned inside-out and they were emerging _out_ of the water, head first and back into air. Adam gasped and coughed, disoriented by the sudden inversion of his body. They fell on each other in a pile, wet, shivering, and sick, but safely inside the mouth of the cave.

 

“What the _fuck_ was that?!” Hawkeye screamed just before she threw up for what must have been the fourth time. The liquid had been coming out of her in impressive volumes, black and thin like ink, and she aimed it prodigiously at the sea, just as Adam had instructed.

“Oh don’t pretend like this isn’t just another Friday night for you,” he said as he stood up straight, sweating and panting from the last bout of projectile vomiting. He could feel a trickle running down one corner of his mouth. With a finger, he caught it before it could drip to the ground and flicked it towards the sea.

Hawkeye turned her eyes on him and glared. To her other side, Hacker and Iron Lad were on all fours, in a similar state of misery.

“Oh gosh, I can’t stop. This is awful,” Stature moaned as she bent over and followed Hawkeye’s lead.

“What was in that water?” Iron Lad demanded, turning his pale face slightly to shoot Adam another metallic glare. Somehow, he managed to expel liquid without removing his mask.

“Alkahest,” Adam groaned as he fell on his ass. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and laughed. “The First Seven is not fucking around.”

“What’s alkahest?” Hacker asked, standing up. She met his eyes for a moment and then quickly looked away.

“It’s an alchemical substance,” Adam said. He turned away too and cast his eyes back to the sea, now flat and quiet as it had been before. It looked so harmless, now that they were on the right side. “A true solvent. _The_ solvent. Harmless to anything magical but will dissolve everything else. Even light, though very slowly. I thought it was just a myth.”

If he had not been prepared with the seeds…

“What the hell,” Hawkeye said, just before she heaved again; she seemed to have taken the brunt of the trap. “We came here to help,” she managed to say in between fits.

“I told you only mages are allowed here.” Adam formed a ring with his forefinger and his thumb and Looked into the cave. Nothing. He didn’t know what he’d expected.

“Well, we made it through,” Iron Lad said. Judging by the restored smoothness of his mask and the revitalized impatience in his voice, he must have finished expelling all the liquid from his lungs. “So obviously there’s a chink in their defense.”

"Only because of this," Adam curled out his tongue and showed him the pomegranate seed. “All of you have onein your pockets. Pomegranate seeds covered in spit and blood and marinated in my—you know what, it’s not important. As long as you have one on you, you’re protected by my magic.”

“Sympathetic magic,” Stature said, coming up behind Iron Lad.

Adam raised an eyebrow at her and she shrugged.

“What? I read,” she said.

“The sea swallowed us while we were crossing,” Adam explained.

“But we didn’t fall in,” Hacker said. “How did we end up underwater?”

“We must have triggered a Castling trap,” Adam said thoughtfully. “I suspect they forced-Castle us with our reflections, though I can’t imagine _how_ ; that kind of Castling shouldn’t be possible.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong but from what you've told me, Castling spells require the spatial exchange of two physical objects?”

Adam nodded. “Exactly. And a reflection is just an image.”

They were quiet for a while, sinking in deep contemplation with only Hawkeye’s horrible retching in the background.

“Well,” Stature began, sounding like she had solved the riddle. She pushed back a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “A reflection is comprised of photons.”

Iron Lad snapped his fingers as he caught the thought. “And if you collapse the wave function—”

“—you can momentarily disrupt the wave-particle duality of light—” Hacker broke in.

“—which would then compel the photon to assume a full-particle state,” Adam finished. " _Then_ , you can initiate a Castle."

They were quiet again for a while, as though surprised by the minor accomplishment of their collaboration. They regarded each other quietly, all on the brink of a grin. No one had died. Yet. Always a good reason to celebrate.

“Yay, teamwork,” Stature whispered to break the silence, shaking her fists in front of her with quiet but exaggerated cheer.

 

They lingered for a few more minutes while they waited for Hawkeye. Once she was done, Adam made them hold hands and, in a line, led the charge into the cave. He Looked through a ring he’d made with his thumb and forefinger just to be sure there would be no more surprises—though he couldn’t See anything anyway. Still, just doing something and going through the motions sapped away some of the anxiety.

The cave was hot and humid and smelled salty with seawater and something else that had the odor of rot. There were no cracks in the walls so the sun couldn't get through but there was a glowing yellow lichen-like growth on the rock so at least it wasn’t completely dark. Whatever fungus it was, it had all but completely colonized every surface; where it failed to grow left smooth exposed stone on the floor that connected conveniently to outline a winding footpath. It was too obvious and too easy. Welcoming, almost. Or _inevitable_ even. Even the tall stalagmite seemed to only permit movement through that path. There was a drip of water somewhere to their right, to which Adam paid particular attention; he was wary now of anything liquid that might find its way to the cave.

But soon, it became evident that there were no other traps waiting for them. The Seven must have deemed their alkahest sea a sufficient defense—and rightly so for nothing could have survived that but a skilled mystic, esophagi scratched with stomach acid, maybe, but otherwise unscathed.

Something _did_ happen, though, something ominous and bizarre but otherwise utterly non-magical and benign. As they walked farther and deeper into the cave, the stalagmite grew taller and the stalactite dipped lower, giving altogether the impression of a mighty set of fangs biting down. It went on like this until the teeth of the cave met and fused into a pair of continuous unbroken walls pressing tight against their bodies in a claustrophobic nightmare. Adam had to squeeze their way through the narrow winding gap until finally, after a few minutes of sliding through the increasingly cramped path, they stumbled out in an open clearing.

“Whoa,” Iron Lad muttered as he and the rest of the team stepped through. Behind them was a wall of smooth stone, fused and unbroken except for the fissure through which they had emerged.

"I feel violated," Hawkeye muttered.

Adam Looked again and, unsurprisingly, Saw nothing magic. And yet he did _see_ something magic with his normal non-magically aided eyes: snow was falling.

“What _is_ this place?” Hacker asked, catching the steady downward drift on her palm.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Stature askd, shivering.

They had stepped into a graveyard of some sort. Around them was a statuary of angels, drowsing fauna, and a menagerie of other sculpted forms and symbologies—there were even specifically religious ones like crosses and even a moon-and-star. There were sepulchers too and monumental obelisks all cloaked white with thick snow. The air was heady with the sweet scent of flowers that seemed to blossom impossibly through the smooth stone floor.

An image, a memory, pushed through the ice, cutting keen and deep as a knife: a boy with golden hair under an iridescent sky, fallen to his back on the silver snow. A flurry of snowflakes scudded before Adam’s eyes and the boy disappeared.

“Come on,” he said grimly, drawing his hood over his head and taking the first step. “We’re almost there.”

 

‘Almost’ turned out to be nearly an hour long, which was a walk far too long than what the islet’s exterior dimensions suggested.

 _Second-Order Spatial Compression_ , Adam thought.

The graveyard was a patchwork of fragmented seasons and places. Interspersed within the deep tundra were pockets of deep summer and blooming spring. There were formal graveyards like the one they had first seen but also swamps and rolling hills and even cloisters of humid forestry in the heart of a roaring sandstorm. They walked through a small city of small mausolea standing resplendently in the sepia light of a crisp Fall afternoon and then through a gated meadow of grave markers under the perpetual assault of a soft rain. An empty swing swayed softly in an absent wind, hanging from the low branch of a huge oak tree in a wide clearing, and the marble statue of a handsome boy wielded a golden spear inside his flaming quadriga, drawn by a quartet of pegasi made of stars. There was even a pair of flying black urns, orbiting each other like binary stars and held aloft by a stationary tornado. 

There was life too, walking among the dead. The first they saw was a fawn, traipsing shyly between the headstones in a sunken courtyard and watching them with its huge brown eyes. Its fur was a crayola shade of brown (indeed, it had the appearance of being haphazardly sketched in the air and abandoned halfway to completion) and behind it hopped a rabbit and a squirrel in similar states of aborted creation. Adam noticed that the critters favored a particular headstone much shorter than the rest.

They found other such creatures as they walked deeper into the graveyard. There was a pack of beagles curled against the statue of a woman who had fallen asleep with a book in her hand, a pond choked with orange koi crowding around a boat filled with flowers, and even a dragon guarding the post and lintel entrance to a cavern. 

Adam could not tell if these conjurations served a defensive purpose or if they were merely decorative. It seemed unlikely, given the attention and tenderness evident in the place, that the Seven would profane this graveyard with the vulgarity of weapons and bloodshed. It was a place of memory, clearly, the most precious ones; every fractured piece felt significant like it held a story.

They walked on quietly, with not a single word exchanged.

 _Maybe a Psychological Hex, Dissonance of Baddeley’s Episodic Buffer to confuse our tracks... could be an Ouroboros Curse as well_ , Adam thought, beginning to suspect a spatial loop. He went through the litany of spells at his disposal and decided he would cast Trémaux's Algorithm if they didn't find the way out soon.

Then, after descending a gentle hill and turning down the service of an ominous-looking ferryman on a black river, they found themselves crossing a steep moon bridge. On the other side, their path ended abruptly before a wide staircase projected diagonally up in a straight unerring path.

“We’re here,” Adam said at the bottom of the steps, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve. “The Heads of the Seven are up there.” And then more quietly, he added, “if Thomas hasn’t already gotten to them.”

They waited for a while, quietly expecting _something_ to happen. For an entourage of the Seven to receive them… or for the speedster to ambush them, already triumphant in his genocide.

“Let’s go,” Hawkeye said, when it felt like they’ve been waiting too long. “No time to lose.”

Yet somehow, without discussion or agreement, they were slow in climbing the stairs. The rest must have felt it in their bones as well, the hallowed sense of magic that pervaded the air. There would be no way to See it and Adam was beginning to suspect that in this place, mysticism and physics had long mingled and miscegenated that it had become impossible to distinguish one from the other.

This was the seat of the mystic, where magic was as ubiquitous and inescapable as gravity and where atoms and forces obeyed a different set of laws. What effect prolonged exposure to this place must have on the others, Adam could not even begin to fathom. Once more, he felt the fragile pomegranate seed with his tongue, making sure it was tucked securely in its place, and hoped that Persephone's Grace would hold.

“Come on,” he said, his voice so harsh and sudden that the others nearly jumped. “You can’t stay here too long.”

It was not a long climb. Soon, about halfway up, the stairs and walls began to change, shifting subtly from unworked cave rock to progressively deliberate masonry. By the time they reached the top of the steps, the floor beneath them had turned into a colored mosaic of flat shiny stones fitted cunningly to create a glimmering abstract pattern on the floor. Iron sconces jutted out of the walls but whatever fire it was that had once burned in them had long guttered out.

Before them stood a pair of stone doors, massive and ancient-looking and carved with wild animals, vines, and the gaping faces of long dead mystics. Adam imagined they were the doors of hell—or heaven—so wide he had to turn his head to see where the hinges sunk into the walls and when he looked up, they seemed to go on forever, the etched façade disappearing in the high shadows.

 _There is a man before the_ _Book_ , came a thought in Sutan's voice. _And when it opens, the words spill out to fill the sky._

In the distance, beyond the gates and at the end of what looked like a long spacious hallway, sat seven thrones, each under a flickering bright red flame. Seven hooded figures were seated, quiet, unmoving, waiting. There were people inside the hallway too, all hooded in robes of varied indeterminate colors and in a similar state of perfect immobility as the occupants of the seven thrones. They crowded on either side of what looked like the wide central aisle of a church or a throne room.

And there, halfway down that aisle, was the Faketriot, the _scar_ , dancing a slow bobbing waltz on its own as it lolled its head left and right in a grotesquely hypnotic repetition.

“I guess _that_ means we’re on the right path,” someone said.

Adam stopped for a while, turned abruptly to face the others, and looked them each in the eye. “Last chance to back out,” he said. “I can go on my own; they won’t hurt me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Hacker asked, eyes bravely meeting his.

“Besides, you don’t look so hot right now,” Hawkeye added. With a gloved hand, she gingerly touched the bruise on his jaw. “If it does come to a fight…”

Adam leaned away and hissed, catching Iron Lad’s eye for a split-second.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Hacker stepped forward and reached out with two fingers. “I can—”

Adam took a step back. “No,” he said, more harshly than he had intended. He raised a hand to stop her advance and softly added, “I’m all right. Just… don’t.”

He couldn’t let her heal him. Or she’d know. About his bruises and Sami and all the stupid things in between. He was spurning her now— _again_ —but Adam knew it would just devastate her more to know the source of these aches. And he knew—he _knew_ —that with one sweep of her powers, she would know immediately.

 _God,_ Adam thought ruefully, seeing the look of rejection warp her small face again. _I just can’t do anything right._

“That’s that, then,” Iron Lad said. “We’re going.”

“All right. Just one more thing,” Adam said, glancing at him and mouthing a quiet ‘thank you’. He bit his thumb and pressed the wound on each of their foreheads, christening them with his blood. “For added protection,” he explained.

"This is gross," Stature muttered.

"Less gross than dead." Adam pulled back his hood and let it fall down behind him. Finally, he turned back to the hall and took a deep breath. "All right. Let's go."

Together, they stepped through the open gates and entered the arcade. And as they crossed the threshold, something tipped in the air; the world melted away and turned into nightmare. It was dark suddenly, much darker than the glow-lit cave behind, and the first thing that hit Adam was the smell of blood and death. To either side of the aisle, the mages of the Seven had disappeared, replaced instead by dark masses prone and crumpled on the ground.

Bodies, he knew at once.

Something had shifted inside him too. His breaths came to him quick and shallow and his heart was pounding so fast, he could actually _hear it_. Something deep and vast was waking inside him, unfurling and thrashing to get out. And deeper still, at the very seat of his soul, it was as if a switch had been flipped and, like the magic that he had broken, the laws changed and he was being drawn forward like a magnet. He could feel it physically, in his chest, the hook that pulled him onward to the end of the hall.

In front of him, the Faketriot stopped its deranged dance and made a beckoning gesture with a hand. Then, it jumped high in the air, and disappeared in a swirl of smoke.

“You’re here,” Adam found himself saying.

Behind him, someone gasped at their sudden plunge into death.

“We’re too late,” Stature whispered.

 _Why?_ He thought to himself, more numb than anything. _Why would you do this, Thomas?_

An electric field passed through his body. He sensed it expand through the chamber and return to Hacker like an echo.

“All dead, nearly four hundred of them,” she said. “All except for one at the end of the hall.”

“Come on,” Hawkeye said, her voice cold and hard as ice. “Let’s catch this speedster.”

For some reason, they walked slowly. No one was in a rush to move or speak—not even Iron Lad—for fear of offending the solemnity that blanketed the dead. Bodies piled around them, left and right, all in red-stained robes, and from the short glimpses he could bear to take, it was clear that some of the fallen were children. And each time he saw a mass too small to be an adult, Adam found himself staring longer, looking for a mop of blond hair and the sharp glint of icy blue eyes.

He never stopped once to actually check. He felt compelled to keep walking, as if an answer was waiting for him. The pull on his chest grew stronger and heavier with each step.

“I failed them,” Hawkeye said. “It was my mission to prevent all this from happening and I failed.”

Wide fluted columns flanked them in two rows, soaring high to the ceiling where they disappeared in darkness. And on the floor, they casted long sharp shadows like black fingers pointing in accusation. Heavy-looking drapes, which might have been red or purple, hung along the walls, limp and lifeless. 

 _Turn away_ , the shadows seemed to whisper.

There, to his right, a woman in yellow robes was slumped against a column, the blue-lipped mouth of an infant still suckling her dead breast. He recognized her immediately: the mage from Mauritius, the one who had killed her own brother to protect Adam.

“I’m sorry,” Hawkeye whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I am so _so_ sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Hacker said. Or was it Stature?

_There is nothing here for you, Heir Supreme. Only death. Leave while still you can._

“He’s welcoming us,” Adam said. Beneath the stench of slaughter was the sharp stab of frankincense and agarwood but he was too distracted by death to divine the significance of that. “All the bodies have been pushed aside to clear a way. This is our welcome carpet.”

_Beyond, here only death. It will find you and follow you to the end of your days._

He shook his head in an attempt to banish the voices but they only grew louder. They merged into a chorus and coalesced in a whispered cacophony, words slipping and spilling over each other that it sounded no more than the rustling of dead leaves.

_Goleavesaveyourself!_

“Asgardian.” Iron Lad pointed a metallic finger and the voices ceased. “Look.”

There, kneeling in a cloud of dust with its back turned to them: a figure in scarlet. His robe draped over and around him, spreading on the floor like spilled blood, and his head was bowed—almost respectfully—before the seven thrones. Postured so, he looked like a prince waiting to be crowned or a petitioner in humble supplication.

The heads of the Seven sat on their thrones, eyes open, chins tipped to their chests, and thoroughly dead.

Too late. Too damn late.

Slowly, making as little sound as possible, the Young Avengers circled and surrounded him, spacing themselves equally with Adam taking the point to face him.

“Hello, little brother,” Thomas said, tilting his face up.

And just like that, that ineffable pull on his chest was gone. And his heart quieted and calmed, like a storm-battered ship finding land.

 _I found you,_ was Adam’s first thought. _And you have green eyes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so a couple of readers had voiced out their... displeasure at what happened in the end of last chapter and if you're one of them and was too shy to tell me, I just want to say that you're fully entitled to those emotions and I wouldn't hold it against you to feel a little let down and betrayed. Even though I felt that it was the natural culmination of Adam's bad decisions, I still had the overwhelming urge to bend over backwards and avoid Sami. So I totally get where you're coming from. (It's a little meta. Perhaps this writer also made a bad decision, eh? :P) I can only promise that things would get better (though not immediately) and that hopefully you still stick with me through the rest of this story.
> 
> So, anyway...
> 
> Ah, I don't really know how I feel about this chapter; had a bit of a tough time editing it before upload. Hope you guys enjoyed it, anyway! Next one is almost ready, hopefully up in a couple of days. :)
> 
> \---
> 
> Next chapter: Heirs!


	9. Heirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Avengers find Thomas and everything goes to hell.

“Your eyes are brown,” Thomas said disapprovingly. “Like mud.”

It was like looking in a broken mirror. Off. As if the reflection forgot to invert itself left-to-right. And there was the hair of course, shock-white bone-white silver that fell limply over his forehead. It was _his_ face, Adam was sure—or it ought have been. It was a harried, wounded face, terribly pocked and scarred, and all cheekbones and sunken eyes that carved deep shadows in its gauntness, imbuing itself with a skeletal look under the flickering glow of the fires behind Adam.

Thomas squinted and tilted his head to one side. "I thought they'd be blue."

He peered up at Adam, frowning as he scrutinized his twin from head to toe. He was pale, like he had not seen the sun in years, and he was so grimy and filthy that Adam could pick out his smell despite the stench of four hundred rotting corpses around them. His eyes were puffy and ringed with dark circles but they were clear and alert. There was no deadness in them, no dazed slur in the way the words had rolled off his tongue, and definitely no touch of magic hovering about him; this was Thomas, unfettered and uncompromised, free will intact.

What was Adam supposed to say now? It wasn't supposed to be like this. They weren't supposed to meet like this. Not on a mountain of corpses, with Thomas sitting atop.

The silence that followed was absolute, almost sacred, and a long inscrutable moment passed between them until someone broke it with the brutal sound of words.

“Tell me it wasn’t you.” Adam was surprised to hear his own voice.

“Weird, right?” Thomas said with a nasty twist of his lips. “Seeing your own face? You know, I used to have dirty dreams that started like this. Didn't think it was my twin, though.”

“Tell me you were under Sutan’s control. Or Dolly’s. Tell me—” His voice caught in his throat as he saw the carnage behind Thomas. Piles and piles of bodies. Mages all, none spared. Not even the children. “Tell me, this wasn’t you.”

Thomas blinked and his face sobered. “But it was.”

_Too late. Too damn late._

Adam closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He felt the air leave his lungs and his skin prickle from the sudden coldness that had enveloped him. These were  _his_ people—his responsibility—and his own brother had butchered them all. His hands turned to fists, sharp nails digging viciously in the soft flesh. It was all he could do to hold back the knot of emotion choking him, to compress into one word the burgeoning madness and seething _hatred_ that swelled in his chest. 

“Why?”

Thomas rose slowly to his feet, back straight and nose tipped up defiantly. Behind him, just as Hawkeye had planned, Hacker was inching forward. An ungloved hand crackled blue with the full force of her power. She wasn’t taking any chances.

“I have my reasons. Good reasons,” Thomas said, pouting. His eyes narrowed into slits, accusatory and serpent-like. “What do you think I am? A _sociopath_?” He spat out the last word, hissing it meaningfully like it should hold significance to the two of them.

“Revenge?” Adam could feel his rage cresting in his chest, his throat burning with the urge to scream. Hacker was almost there. Just a few inches now. “What reason could you possibly have to commit genocide?”

He waited, shaking and breathing hard, but Thomas only stared back. He frowned at Adam and shook his head, as if he had just been asked something incredibly stupid. He sneered and slowly, in a half-whispered voice, said:

“No more Seven."

The sound of something cracking. Then Thomas's eyes widened and his chest arched forward as Hacker’s hand finally made contact with the back of his neck. His eyes swivelled wildly in their sockets, moving so quickly it looked like his irises had disappeared, giving way to white.

“I’ve got him,” Hacker said, pulling back her other arm as if drawing a bowstring; her fingers twitched as they manipulated electrostatic forces that Adam couldn't see. “I got him. He’s not going any—”

Then Thomas’s eyes locked on Adam’s and crinkled with amusement. He winked. “Just kidding.”

He stuck out his tongue to one side of his mouth and there was a blur—a _wet_ blur—and suddenly, Hacker was flying backwards, her limbs splayed out as her body pinwheeled in the air. Hawkeye immediately had her guns out and managed to get a few shots at something Adam couldn’t see. Then, there was a brief flash of green around her hands and her guns shook violently; she dropped them to the floor with a yelp and they scattered in a small explosion.

Thomas was a wet swirl of red and silver and before Adam could move or say anything, the speedster had his hands on Stature’s arms.

“Cassie,” he said, twisting them behind her. "Kate."

His robe swayed around him, splotchy and discolored like it had been accidentally bleached. Adam brought a shaking hand to his face where some of the wetness had landed. It came away red.

 _Blood_ , he thought, with mounting horror. _His robe is red with blood._

“Nice to see you. And you’re Nate, right? We only met that one time; you probably don’t remember but you were an ass. Who’s the other girl?” He was talking quickly, just barely intelligible, and his whole body was practically vibrating. His eyes flitted rapidly between the five of them, wide with the touch of madness. "Never mind. I don't care. Why are they here, brother? You scared of me?"

“You know us?” Hawkeye asked, producing another gun just as Iron Lad took to the air and aimed a glowing palm at him.

“Hah! That hurts, Kate. Especially from you,” Thomas said, angling Stature’s body between them. “I remember all of you.” He hit the side of his head with the heel of his palm a couple of times and twitched. “I've got all these memories. Another life. Another me. I know all of you. Except that one over there.” He tiled his head sideways, indicating Hacker. "What are you supposed to be?"

“Thomas, calm down,” Hawkeye said softly, lowering her gun. She took a tentative step forward and raised a hand before her.

“My. Name. Is. Tommy,” he hissed through his teeth. "Kate Bishop"

“Okay, Tommy. Calm down.” Another careful step. She tipped her chin down and crouched, as if she were approaching a wounded animal. “You’ve been through enough. Let us help.”

“There are more, right? Eli! You fucking coward, are you here?” Tommy yelled, looking around. “Teddy! Come out!”

Adam blinked.

 _You shouldn’t know that name_ , he thought.

“Are you there!” His body blurred with Stature's as he checked behind the pillars.

He reappeared in the same spot and looked up. His eyes flashed green again. Above them, too far up to see, there was a loud trembling as the ceiling shook, followed by a gentle rain of dust.

“Are you up there, Teddy?!”

_Stop. Stop it. Don’t say that name._

“I know you’re here! He won’t come for me without his Teddy!”

“Stop! Talking!” Adam yelled. He advanced on Tommy, hands an electrified blue to his sides.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tommy hissed, twisting savagely to force Stature between them. “You can’t take me.”

“There are five of us,” she said. “And if you really do know us, as you seem to imply, you should know it’s pretty dumb to take _me_ hostage.”

The speedster blurred again, his robes splattering past them in a rain of blood, and reappeared behind Iron Lad and Hawkeye, hands poised before him like an orchestra conductor's.

“Please,” he said. “I know all your tricks.” He looked them each in the eye and sneered. "And you don't know me."

“You think you can take us?” Adam said, closing ranks with the rest. “Four Young Avengers?”

“Five,” Hacker corrected.

“ _Five_ Young Avengers.”

"Don't demote me." That was Hawkeye, sidling to his left.

"Fine. One Hawkeye and four Young Avengers."

Tommy snorted. “Ironic.”

“You will lose, Tommy.”

“Look around you, little brother,” he said, spreading his blood-drenched arms. Even from this distance, Adam could see the sharp gleam of scars on his pale skin. “Do you think your numbers matter to me? Five, fifty… I’ll slit your throats in a heartbeat.”

 _Then why don’t you?_  Adam thought _What's_ _the play here?_

“Please, Tommy,” Adam pleaded. With one hand behind his back, he started laying down the foundations to a Kinetic Dampening hex.

_The Seven... My own twin... It all comes back to me. Too circular. Too structured. What are you really up to?_

“Adam, Adam, Adam, with his lightning bolts and Chaos Magic. So powerful. So _special._ ” Tommy crouched and bared his teeth. “And poor little speedster Tommy. Always underestimated. Always left behind. Even by his own team.”

“Oh, great,” Cassie said dryly, rubbing and rolling her shoulders. “A sob story. He’s gone full villain.”

“He's monologuing,” Iron Lad added. "In the third person."

"Maybe you should take notes," Hawkeye said.

“We can help you, Tommy,” Adam said, ignoring them. “It’s not too late.”

“It’s a little too late,” Hawkeye said. In a split-second flash, she was in front of him. She had drawn a second gun and a series of shots rang out.

“Hawkeye! No!” He tried to pull her back but Hacker and Iron Lad held him back by the arms. 

“He’s too dangerous, Asgardian,” Hawkeye said calmly. “We can’t pull our punches. Look.”

And there he was, standing right where he had been. There was no blur this time, except for the sudden flaring of his robes and a sickening mist of blood around him. Tommy had his hands before him in fists, arms crossed over each other defensively.

“She’s right, you know,” he said. He opened his hands and six bullets fell to the floor in a series of _clinks._ “I’m dangerous. A _sociopath_.” There. Again, that word spat out like venom. “I can rip all of you apart. I can do that now. Atom from atom with just a thought. I don’t even have to lift a finger. I just have to think it.”

"Now you're just showing off," Hacker said.

"Try me."

With a final twitch of his thumb, Adam felt his spell sink and settle in his cloak. “Fine,” he said, unclipping the clasp at his neck. “Let's do this the hard way. You’re coming with us even if I have to beat you bloody.”

A speedster must never have the first move, that much was strategically obvious. Without missing a beat, Adam planted his right foot on the ground and flung both hands in Tommy’s direction. Lightning arced from his fingertips, blue and sizzling and ripping through the air in a burst of ozone.

Tommy stilled and then he vanished. A second later, Hacker, Stature and Hawkeye, were crashing onto each other. Iron Lad tried to take flight but he bounced back to the floor with a sickening metallic crunch as if brutally repelled by an invisible force field. Tommy was herding them in a group, pushing and pulling methodically to keep them off balance. Blood rose around them in a haze, drenching their clothes red-brown, as they slowly rolled and tumbled their way to the back of the hall.

 _He's not killing them_ , Adam thought.  _What's going on here, Tommy? What are you really up to?_

Adam shifted his hands around, trying to aim, but Tommy was too quick and made sure to keep close to the team. Adam could hear him laughing, like a child playing a game.

“Stop him!” Adam cried and his cloak vanished in a red streak.

It shot across the hall in a blur, criss-crossing through the pillars as it chased something invisible. It stopped in the middle of the hall and Tommy abruptly reappeared. His ankle had been caught, just as he was pulling Iron Lad’s elbow to twirl him into Hawkeye, who was on all fours on the ground.

Understanding seemed to reach his eyes as the cloak snaked around his foot and spiraled around his legs. His whole body began to shake, vibrating so violently the air  _hummed_. His eyes flashed green but the cloak held fast, keeping him in its iron grip. Behind him, the others were slowly climbing to their feet, doubled over with nausea and vertigo.

“Stop fighting. The cloak is spelled,” Adam said, watching Tommy’s body shake even more wildly. “It's over.”

And just like that, he stopped resisting. “Fuck,” he said, looking impressed. “Well done, little brother. You got me.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Adam said, frowning as he shook his head.

_There’s something wrong about all this. Something horribly wrong._

“You couldn’t have taken down the Seven. Not like this. Not on your own. You're fast but—no, you're not strong enough. Not without help. Not without—”

“Magic?” Tommy smiled, his teeth gleaming and shark-like in the firelight. Behind him, Iron Lad floated, arms ready, and Stature grew in size. “That would be terrifying, right? A speedster-mage? He’ll be able to do something like—”

His hand flashed, too quick for Adam to follow, and the room turned black-white then back again, like an x-ray. The cloak dropped lifelessly to the ground, empty and uncharmed.

_Shit._

“Or this,” Tommy said again; this time his voice came from behind.

Adam had just about enough time to turn and see Tommy’s arms flash again. He threw up his own hands, carving every protective spell he could think of with all the shortcuts he knew. His tongue was thick and dead in his mouth and he stumbled over the words but he felt Maria’s strings spinning around his wrists and ankles, correcting his structures and nudging the sound waves to rectify the enunciation. The defenses were coming up, he could feel them taking hold and extracting the price from his body, but Tommy dismantled them easily with quick-handed counterspells.

 _No. Still_ _wrong_ , he thought. _Even with magic…_

All the while, Iron Lad and Hawkeye had been shooting from behind but Tommy easily dodged their attacks. First he was in front of the thrones, then by the gates. Then, a second later he was dashing between the pillars. He seemed to be concentrating on Stature and Hacker; skirting past them over and over to keep them spinning and unfocused.

With a roar, Stature grew to fill the hall. The sight of her stunned Tommy for a moment, not a long moment but long enough for her to land a solid backhanded swipe and send him flying against a pillar. He landed on his back with a muffled  _ooomf_ and that seemed to have disoriented him. But Stature's movements had slowed considerably and he recovered too quickly. When she tried to trap him under her hand, Tommy raced up her arms and swung back down from her ponytail, pulling down with such force that the ground shook when she crashed.

His eyes burned green and the space around her took on a hazy shimmer as surrounding air molecules vibrated out of control. She pushed herself up and fell back to the floor with a loud thump, nearly crushing Hacker under her giant knee. She raised her hands up, palms flattening against an invisible ceiling and hitting it uselessly with her fists. Satisfied, Tommy leapt back and forth between two pillars, climbing in a zigzag trail, and before Iron Lad could move out of the way, the speedster propelled himself off a pillar, caught Iron Lad's leg, and plucked him from the sky. He landed on both legs and used the momentum to swing Iron Lad like a bat. His armor made a loud crumpling sound as it made contact with a pillar, loose stone skittering off in a cloud of dust.

Adam thrust out a hand in Tommy's direction, quickly executing a spell of Minor Levitation, but before it could take hold, the speedster vanished again and reappeared behind Stature. His eyes flashed green as he made a closing gesture with one hand. There was a high keening sound, like metal tearing, as the space around her shook furiously; it warped and fractured, forcing her to shrink back as the invisible ceiling bore down and compressed her.

 _Energy and entropy_ , Adam thought, as he attempted the spell again.  _We're opposites—no, complements._

Tommy tilted his head as he watched Stature shrink further and further until Adam couldn't see her anymore. "Wanna see how small she can squeeze?" he asked curiously, glancing quickly just in time to deflect Adam's hex with a blur of his free hand. To his side, corpses floated a few feet off the ground.

Adam tried to break the construct with magic but its nature made it intrinsically impenetrable; the very fabric of space was vibrating, churning with such atomic anarchy that the ordered structure of Formal magic disintegrated at its very touch. Failing that, he retrained another spell attempt on Tommy but before he could finish, Hawkeye was already on him, swiping at his feet. The cage broke immediately and Cassie popped back to her normal size _,_ coughing and wheezing on all fours.

Tommy fell forwards, just as Hawkeye had anticipated, and received a punch to the throat from Hacker's fist.

"Sleep!" she cried and the floor around her crackled with electricity.

It seemed to faze him, but only a little. His eyelids drooped slightly and when he tried to push her off, his arms came too weak. 

"Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!" she screamed uselessly, slamming her other hand over his face as Hawkeye wrapped her arm around him in a headlock.

But soon enough, his eyes regained focus and he glared at her.

"You're annoying," Adam heard him say. He saw the quick glint of something in the fold of Tommy's left sleeve followed by the flash of his arm, slower than his usual speed but still faster than Hacker could block.

Before she knew what was happening, Tommy had produced the knife, slashing low under her arm.

"Ruixian," Adam muttered under his breath. He did an elaborate twisting Form with his left hand and there was a whoosh of wind against his face, accompanied by the sensation of being turned inside out. Castle completed, he held his own blade to his side, meeting Tommy's knife edge on edge—a little too late—just as the point penetrated flesh and drew blood.

"Tommy, please," Adam pleaded, pressing his knife hard against Tommy's to keep it from slicing across his belly. "Stop fighting."

Behind him, just before the thrones, he could hear Hacker scrambling back to her feet, groaning and cursing at being forcefully displaced.

"Wish I could, bro," Tommy mumbled. "Wish I could."

Behind him, to his left, Hawkeye had a syringe out, filled with a white opaque liquid and making its way towards his neck. And then, just before it could break skin, he hummed, "I don't think so."

There was another blur and there was burning sensation in his left shoulder, as if the arm had been wrenched out of its socket. Then he was flying, hurtling and spinning through the air so quickly that he couldn't make sense of his surroundings. He landed against something that yelped and they tumbled together.

"Are you okay?" he heard Hacker ask. He was on the floor, lying on his side, and the room swayed around him dizzily. "Oh my god. Shit. You've got a concussion."

His left arm felt numb and the base of his skull radiated pain. He tried to make a Form but the fingers won't respond. "I can't feel my—" he said and immediately he felt the tingle of Hacker's powers propagating through his nerves. "Thanks."

With Stature and Adam down, Tommy shifted his attention on his next target. He walked slowly, circling her with a grim look on his face. He whizzed past her and there was a horrific crack.

Hawkeye fell to her knees with a muffled cry, shoulders slumping forward as she held her hands to her chest. Her fingers were splayed open, pulled and bent unnaturally at several places. She tried to stand up and there was another crack as Tommy streaked past her again.

“Stay down, Kate,” he murmured as the Avenger fell down again, her right knee bending in the wrong direction. "Just this once. Please. Stay out of it. This is between me and him _._ "

"Kate," Adam heard Hacker whisper, her voice low and urgent.

"I can't do that." Hawkeye flicked her hair to one side and stared defiantly at the speedster. "If you really knew me—us, you'd know that. If you were really one of us, you'd know we don't back down." She rose to her good leg, leaning lopsidedly on one hip, and waited for Tommy to make his move.

"What can you do?" he asked solemnly. His robe was pink now; all the blood had been wrung out. "You have no powers, no weapons. And you have one leg."

Hawkeye slowly raised a mangled hand; from the way the fingers were bent, it looked like she was giving him the finger.  "Come and see."

 _Stand down, Hawkeye, stand down_ , Adam wanted to scream.  _He's insane!_ But the words caught in his throat, held captive there by Hacker's powers coursing through him, healing, restraining, suffocating.

A corner of Tommy's lips lifted in a slight smile and then he was gone, flashing past Hawkeye. She crumpled soundlessly to the ground and didn't get up.

Tommy reappeared behind her, just a few paces from Adam and Hacker, and with a curious frown, he lifted a hand and touched his cheek. It was spasming wildly and Adam could see something small and metallic digging into the flesh, making loud crackling sounds. "Nice try," Tommy said as he ripped off the device, pulling out bits of skin and muscle in the process. Blood poured out of his face but he just wiped it off with his shoulder and didn't even flinch.

“Kate!” Hacker cried as she ran for her, hands and eyes turned blue in an electric storm.

“Whoa,” Tommy said, smiling just as he disappeared again.

Then there was a clinking noise somewhere to her far right and something red and silver flashed in the air, slamming into her with its full weight. Adam had just about enough time to compress a cushion of air to soften Iron Lad's impact.

 _Too slow_ , Adam thought. _I’m too slow._

Tommy grinned as he turned, finally, on Adam and began tearing through his shields. “You’d use this second-rate magic on me?” he laughed, hands blurring through the Forms. “We are made of the same stuff, little brother.”

_Something’s wrong. Very very wrong. This is all wrong…_

With a sudden snap, Tommy vanished. A second later and he reappeared on the raised podium, just before the thrones. His hands froze before him, fingers twisted grotesquely in a Form that Adam immediately recognized.

“No," he gasped, as the air hissed behind him.

Iron Lad reacted first, metal mask scrunching up with alarm and hands clawing desperately at his neck. Then Hawkeye, Stature, and Hacker floated limply off the ground and gravitated towards him. Their hair stood on end and their faces turned an alarming grayish-blue as the air rushed out of their lungs.

 _No way,_ Adam thought as he watched them float in their vacuum prison. _Impossible._

His instincts readily provided the proper Forms to crack the Pneumatic Cage but Tommy’s spellform was so layered that it would have taken hours to systematically unravel it. So instead, he focused the spell in a single concussive strike and fractured the Cage, creating a fissure about an inch wide; it was crude and brutal but it should let the air in, enough to stave off suffocation at least before the Cage could repair itself.

So now, he just had to defeat a speedster-mage before that happened.

It was all wrong… Tommy, the First Seven, this magic. But he couldn’t think about any of that right now.

“Is this what you want?” he roared, turning back on his brother with tears in his eyes. Something inside him surged, hot and bright as lightning. Not rage, he realized, but _fear._ Fear for his life and for his friends. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not like this. Not like this.

Before he knew it, he was back on his feet and flinging himself toward Tommy. Hacker hadn't fixed him completely; his left arm was numb and a little slow but it responded well enough. His hands and elbows shot out quickly in three strikes, aiming at shoulder, rib, and throat, though Tommy parried them easily with quick glancing swipes.

“Come at me then!” Adam yelled. His hands carved the Forms of magic in the air, streaking blue and white as he tried to land a kick to the side of Tommy's knee. This time, the words of the spell rolled off his tongue unerringly.

“Yes!” Tommy shrieked. “Finally!”

Adam started off simple: with his left hand, he wove an Accelerated Hypernucleation spell, while his right fist coerced the surrounding space into a classical Thermogenesis to draw out the heat. “You like that?” he screamed as ice crystals formed and frosted in the air, filling the room with sub-zero mist as they fused to encase Tommy in a frozen coffin.

_Weak! Too weak!_

Adam's hands flowed seamlessly to the next spell as the ice began to shake violently and Tommy burst out in a radial spray of icicles. “How about this?”

Big energies gathered around him—Atlantean, forbidden, dark. The monstrous words oozed out of his mouth in gurgled tones, so harsh and sharp in their pronunciation that the very uttering scraped his throat. The fingers on his left hand clawed and snapped with ferocious dexterity, even as he rushed Tommy and, quite miraculously, landed a right-handed punch on his stomach, sending him reeling backwards; the drop in temperature must have slowed down his molecules too.

“By the Maws of Kereberos!” Adam yelled unnecessarily, as he brought his palms together and flared out the fingers. "I bind you!"

His heart skipped, once, twice, thrice in warning.

 _Fucking magic_ , he thought. _Not yet!_

Above them, the darkness beneath the ceiling stirred and moaned as if it were a sentient thing waking from a deep slumber. And then, quite suddenly, it crashed onto Tommy in a vortex. The speedster dashed in zigzag trails through the hall, throwing up dead bodies to shield himself while his arms flailed about frantically, futilely trying to carve out Forms to push away the invading shadow. But Adam had chosen a smart spell, one to match Tommy speed for speed and impossible to hack without a proper counterspell. It swirled thickly like oil, chasing relentlessly as Tommy ran down the hall; with a cry, Tommy fell in the thing's grasp and it seeped through his orifices. 

Adam panted and staggered a few steps back. "Shit," he muttered, as he tripped and landed on his ass.

Lightning lanced through his left leg and he saw black spots blossom in his eyes. He could feel his body starting to protest but he kept the spell going. With a sweeping dance of his fingers, he shaped the darkness into a sphere and then urged it into compactness with another clap of his hands. He could feel his heart seizing and his bones beginning to shake but before he could fall back and take a breath, a thin line of light sliced through his spell.

 _No time. No time_ , he thought fervently. He groaned in desperation as he bit his thumb and drew a blood sigil over his forehead: a simple charm to speed up cognitive processes. He said the words to petition Solomon his Crown and immediately felt the enchantment take hold.

Tommy stepped out, panting, disheveled, and looking mightily pissed, but otherwise unscathed. He had conjured a broadsword made of pure light, which he hefted expertly with both hands. Light against dark; it was the right countermove.

He winked at Adam and, without warning, hurled the burning sword at his face. Adam caught the blade between his palms, with speed that preceded conscious thought.

“That all you got?!” He twisted his hands and shattered the sword into harmless butterflies of light.

He saw Tommy pause and raise a hand. “My turn,” the speedster said, and his hand was a blur. Sounds tumbled out of his mouth in a rush, made too high-pitched by his speed and too quick and garbled to be proper words.

 _Too rushed and too mangled to work_ , Adam thought disbelievingly.  _There's no way this magic will work._

And yet it did.

The world plunged into darkness. Then, a spark, as all light gathered and coalesced into Lucifer’s Lantern; the white dot materialised a few feet overhead, blinding and hot. It descended on Adam slowly, inexorably, like it had all the time in the world to burn it down. Adam threw up his hands and rushed through Armati’s Prism, erecting it just in time to diffract the Lantern before it could turn his flesh to ash.

His eyes drifted back to Tommy and watched the other's hands speeding through the preliminaries of another spell. Even with the Crown, Adam still couldn't understand where the structures were forming; indeed, he couldn't even see any movement or conversion of energies around Tommy. Was he masking them? And how was he quickly adapting the spells to the broken rules of magic without the support of metamagic like Maria's strings? How was he paying for such fearsome feats?

 _Something is off_ , Adam thought again, but the thought slipped away once more as the ground rippled beneath his feet.

Four crucifixes broke through the stone and rose around him, each made of a different material—wood, ivory, crystal, metal—and bearing a charred skeleton. Adam gasped, not so much out of dread as disbelief.

_Empyrean magic followed immediately by Cimmerian?_

How was Tommy alternating so quickly between Angelic and Demonic magicks? How was his soul able to stand the sudden strain without breaking? And the cost he’d have to pay…

That moment of intellectual distraction almost got Adam caught in the trap. With a sharp cry, he covered his ears just before the skeletons started shrieking their infernal hymn. He closed his eyes, sang out his counterspell, and laid his hands tenderly on the ground, fingers barely brushing the slick surface. Particles of light floated through the cracks like fireflies, gathering in a tempest that slowly corroded the crucifixes with their divine touch.

He rose to his feet, even as his vision swam and he coughed out blood, and reshaped the Hope of Orpheus into needle-point daggers. He drew back his arms, puffing out his chest, and then threw them forward, aiming at Tommy, who then nullified the counterattack with a lazily executed Necrotic Fractal Dispersion.

He looked almost bored, resentful of the tedium of being made to compete with Adam’s slow casting. “Come on. What are you doing?” he asked, frowning. He pouted and tilted his head with bemused curiosity. “You can end this with a word.”

But Adam wasn't listening.  He was in another world now, caught in a tempest of magic and rage. 

Their hands moved without stopping, trading spell with spell in a blitz. Energies crested and crashed against each other and bits of stone hurtled in all directions as wayward hexes blasted through marble and cave rock.

Tommy lobbed a Hyperbaric Thermogenesis which transformed the throne room to a hellscape and Adam froze it with a Siberian blizzard, quickly summoned through a sharp exhale through a triangle he'd made with his hands. He retaliated with a conjuration of flesh-eating shadow creatures but Tommy banished them effortlessly with the same Hope of Orpheus that Adam had sung.

Pushing Solomon's Crown to its limit, Adam strained his eyes for glimpses of Tommy's magic as it formed. Unlike Adam's, which was abused and battered into correction by the strings' metamagic, Tommy's magic was a haphazard patchwork of multiple microspells slapped over each other unceremoniously—all pins and duct tape and miscellaneous parts stitched together to force a cohesive whole to work under the broken laws of magic. It worked, but it was fractured; though each microspell was masterfully woven—elegantly, even—the way they layered over each other felt forced and clumsy. Too many auxiliary structures, wasted Forms, pointless redundancies. Even the styles were different, giving an overall impression of a Frankenstein spell.

 _Something's wrong,_ the thought came to Adam again in a brief moment of lucidity before sinking back in the madness of battle.

The throne room lit up with flashes of light as magic and countermagic collided. Abstract whorls of waste arcana curled around them in rainbow tendrils, slightly warping the local physics; pillars' shadows disappeared and reappeared pointing  _towards_ the light source and debris and corpses floated around them, crowding to the walls as gravity tilted and became centrifugal. They fought in a dance, almost formulaic: annihilate light with darkness… meet cold with heat… banish a number with its reciprocal… Complements, supplements, two halves to a whole. It was fitting; they were twins, after all.

Soon, Adam found himself smiling and laughing, even as his ribs cracked and blood ran down his eyes and ears. It had been so long since he had fought like this, to be driven to his very limits. He rested his weight on his right leg, pressing his toes to the ground, perched and ready to soar; his other leg was properly broken now but he felt like he was _flying._

At the other end of the room, his brother appeared and disappeared in brief flashes of light, lit up in sharp contrast by flickering shadows and the magicks that they were wielding.

And always, that bored, disappointed look on his face.

For some mad reason, he was humouring Adam, egging him on to greater and greater heights with an obviously asymmetrical duel. It pushed him right to the precipice and he had to improvise on the fly to defend against some of the more exotic spells. The speedster smiled, arms flashing unintelligibly around him as he condescended to play with Adam. His hands were too quick to read, even with Adam rocking Solomon's Crown, and half the time, he would release the counterspell seconds before Adam could even cast his attack.

 _It’s wrong… All so wrong_ … Adam thought again. _What are you really after here?_

It was clear that if he went on like this, he would die… if not at the hands of his brother, then surely from the cost that he must later pay for the forces that he was channeling.

“You can’t beat me like this,” Tommy said with a wicked grin. He shook his head and made a disdainful face. “You think you can half-ass me? We're equals, little brother.”

Adam glanced back at his team. They were still afloat in their prison, motionless and eyes closed; even Iron Lad had ceased struggling.

_The Cage must have already repaired itself. How long had it been since they’d last drawn a breath? Seconds? Minutes?_

Around him, water pooled halfway up his knees. The gravitational disturbance seemed to have run its course and the corpses were now floating around him, crowding his legs as their dead accusing eyes looked up at him. He didn't know what foul conjuration this liquid was but it was white and sticky and smelled like iron.  

 _I dreamed of this,_ he thought, remembering his last night at the Roost.  _I was warned and it still happened._

He took a deep breath and turned back to Tommy to study him. With a quick mental calculation, he plotted a parabolic trajectory and carved the Forms behind his back. When he was done, he closed his eyes and made a decision.

_So be it._

He released the spell and channeled as much of the magic as he could in his legs. _My turn_ , he thought. From a standing start, he leapt for Tommy, hurtling through the air in a whistling streak and biting back a cry as his hips shattered from the reaction force. The sudden speed had caught Tommy off guard and with a splash, Adam landed squarely on him, knocking him flat on his back and immediately straddling his chest. Tendrils of red spread around them as the blood seeped from Tommy's robes into the milky water.

 _My legs,_ Adam thought as all feeling in them abruptly disappeared, like a light snuffed out. _I can’t feel my legs. How am I gonna fight without my legs?_

But there was no time. His mind was already on autopilot, going through the planned motions with tyrannical linearity. One problem at a time.

With a clap, he triggered the Entropic Pulse, decimating all Formal structures of magic and negating all active enchantments in the hall. He felt the Pulse stripping off the defensive spells from his skin and Maria’s charmed strings sputtered and died like shorted fuses. The flood vanished in a burst of steam and the bodies of the Seven fell back to the floor with wet, nauseating  _thump_ s.

Panting hard, Adam turned to his left just in time to see the Pneumatic Cage break like a cracked egg, his team fallen to the floor in a motionless pile. He felt the pomegranate seed decay and turn sour on his tongue and he coughed and nearly choked as the seed fell out of his mouth, fragile and scarlet and precious as a drop of heartsblood.

With another groan, he turned inwards into himself and turned the key to a lock.

His eyes and fists burned blue.

“Finally!” Tommy shouted with relief. His drove the heel of his palm into Adam’s chest and sent him flying back.

Adam felt the air rush out of his lungs as he scrambled desperately to break his fall. He landed on his back, panting and partially blind even as Chaos Magic surged through him.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tommy yelled madly.

And then, he threw himself against Adam, flying through the air in a pink blur, his face twisting with psychotic glee.

 _Korovsky’s Pneumatic Cage? That requires three pairs of hands_ , came the thought to Adamm, a little too late. _No matter how fast he is, he needs three pairs._

Before him, his right hand was raised in an open palm, blue light flickering as doubt broke the flow of magic. Then, just before the light went out, Tommy’s hand touched his, palm on palm.

“Finally!” Tommy said again. “Now we’re in business! Stop holding back, little brother. Let go. Show me what you can do. Show me the _real_ you!”

Beneath them, sigils lit up as the final terms of the ritual were met and the Circle came to life. The air hummed with ritual magic and a crack appeared in the floor. A serpent slithered out, winding around the circumference of the Circle as it chased and ate its own tail.

 _An Ouroboros structure?_ Adam thought.  _Why?_

“Heh. Look at me,” Tommy said, still smiling, his face a terrifying specter with the unearthly glow beneath. “Acting all supervillain-y. Monologuing and all that, when we both know that I’m not the bad guy here.”

His eyes burned with his own strange power—the other half of Chaos, whatever that was. His hand glowed too, sickly green, just as unearthly as blue ether. Eldritch. Necromantic.

“It’s not even _them_ ,” he said. Behind him, the heads of the Seven rose from their thrones and took to the air, circling Adam and Tommy like a kettle of hungry vultures—or perhaps ghosts, with their long flowing robes rippling around them. Adam gaped at them, angry and confused. “It’s you!" Tommy shrieked. "You’re the villain! If you only Ascended like you were supposed to!”

Adam roared, feral and defiant, and let Chaos loose. It sang through his bones and muscles, rippling out in pulses of blue light in time with his own heartbeat.

“Say the words, come on,” Tommy said, coaxing, pleading, eyes wide with madness. “We’re almost there.”

And so Adam grabbed hold of reality and, in a voice he had long forgotten, spoke the word.

“ **Stop.** ”

It was like there was a Crack. An explosion of blue, the release of pent-up energy, like a dam breaking. He could feel the universe listening… obeying…

...and doing  _nothing_.

With another flash, blue turned to green.

“Oh God, finally,” Tommy whispered, his body emanating its own light as he and Adam began to hover a few feet off the ground.

 _Oh,_ Adam thought in a fevered daze. He smiled and shed a tear.  _I'm flying._

Energy swirled around them in a brilliant blaze, electric blue and neon green. Swirling, swirling, like water going down a rusted drain. The gaping mouth of Charybdis opening. Their foreheads drifted forward, pressing against each other as their eyes shifted and exchanged colors. Blue flashing green and green flashing blue. Chaos tempered by Order. Space moved by Time. Fate defied by Choice. Perfect paradox. Completion.

" **My half** ," they whispered—not together but in a single voice shared. " **to yours**."

It felt wrong.

Incestuous.

This is what they had wanted all along… what they were pushing him to do. They wanted _Chaos._

Somewhere, far away, in the blackest depths of space, ancient Things stirred and turned Their eyes to watch.

“It’s done,” he heard Tommy say.

And then something was slipping away from him, something vital and so inherent that when it was torn away, he felt cold and alone in the Circle, even as his brother’s arms wrapped around him.

Seven hands took hold of him, gripping tight at the arms and shoulder. Something else was happening around him— _to_ him—but the torrent of magic drowned it all out and the mighty ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear the words of this new spell.

There was the prick of something sharp penetrating his arm but the pain was distant and abstract. Another one in the belly. And then another, and another, and another. Seven times they stabbed him, though he never quite felt the sting and he was sure it was nowhere too important.

His mind, stretched out and delirious as it was, felt the wave of something sickening washing over it. It had no physical sensation, only that in his heart of hearts, its touch felt _morally wrong._ And then another, and another, and another. Again, Seven times.

 _Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_ His instincts protested but he could do nothing, trapped as he was in the jaws of this terrible spell.

Then, as abruptly as it had come to life, the Ouroboros devoured itself and the Circle guttered and flickered out.

Adam fell to the ground. Or he might have, if Tommy had not caught him and broken his fall.

 

“I’ve got you, baby brother,” Tommy crooned, rocking their bodies back and forth. “I've got you. You're safe...”

He had his arms around Adam, tender, protective, and Adam could feel the warmth rolling off him. Pressed so close like this, he could even smell the odor of his blood-soaked cloak.

 _Is it over?_ He couldn’t tell if he had won or lost. Only that he was weak and tired.

 _But alive,_ he thought with some relief. _That’s always good… right?_

He tried to even out his breathing and slowly opened his eyes. He could still see the afterimage of green and blue burned on his retinas.

“I’ve got you,” Tommy said again, rocking their bodies back and forth.

Adam was winded and exhausted. He felt ill, like his own skin didn't belong to him and every nerve felt so exposed that even Tommy’s breaths were a firebrand against his cheek. He was tired, so fucking tired.

And yet, though dazed and on the verge of collapse, he felt _strong._ Stronger than he had been in years. Power poured into him from somewhere, freely the way it had when Strange had been Sorcerer Supreme. It rained down on him from every star and atom, choking, saturating, smothering him, before flowing back to the Earth. He felt immovable. Unstoppable. He felt supreme.

 _Is this it?_ He thought dully. _Have I Ascended?_

No. He couldn’t have. Not as Adam Thorne. The conduit was somewhere else.

“It was them all along,” he muttered feverishly. “I can see it now… Fuck. The killings. The magic. You can’t do magic—it was all theirs! All this blood just for a new Sorcerer Supreme.”

“Later,” Tommy murmured, pressing a hand against Adam’s cheek. “Rest now, baby brother.”

He could still feel the iron-grip of hands around his arms and shoulders. He looked and saw that they had all been dismembered at the wrists.

 _Left hands_ , he noted absently.  _Hands sinister._

Around them, the bodies of the heads of the Seven sprawled out in a spreading sea of red, finally, _truly_ dead. Arterial blood flowed out of their stumps—not in gushes, but slowly, _oozing,_ without the driving pressure of a living heartbeat. Their right hands pointed at Adam and Tommy, fingers frozen forever in a Form of the Ouroboros.

They had died with their eyes open, all staring at Adam, and he had to wonder if the last thing they saw satisfied them.

 _Was it worth it?_ he thought bitterly. _Was it worth it, you old bastards?_

It must have been. One of the faces was smiling, almost proudly, and Adam was only a little sad to realize that it was Sutan’s.

There were others in the hall with them now, moving through the rest of his team and surreptitiously placing something small and red in their pockets—pomegranate seeds, if he had to guess. They were all pristinely robed in white, though the fabric at their feet had begun to soak up the blood from the floor. Once they had finished tending to his team, they gathered around Adam and Tommy.

“Heir Supreme,” one of them said. A girl, the tallest one, with black hair, narrow eyes, and a hooked nose; she looked like a teenager—almost. “You are Adam Thorne.”

“I am.” Adam nodded in acknowledgement and as he stirred, the hands unclasped from his body and fell to the floor. 

 _All left hands_ , he thought again.

All this. The decimation of the bloodlines of the First Seven. All to create Seven Hands of Glory. To forcefully Ascend a Sorcerer Supreme.

“We are the heirs to the thrones of the First Seven,” the girl said in an admirably steady voice. She smiled bitterly. “I suppose we are the Last Seven now.”

Beside her, holding a bloody silver knife, was a familiar sight: blond hair and blue eyes.

“Hi, Teddy.” Adam smiled weakly.

“Hello, Mister Adam,” the boy said shyly, drifting behind the girl and clutching her robe.

“Was that you just now? Fighting me?”

Teddy nodded and pursed his lips. “It was all Seven of us.”

“I thought so.” Adam released a shaky breath. “You were really good.”

 _What formidable families,_ Adam thought sadly. _Even their children..._

“I’m sorry we hurt you, Mister Adam,” Teddy said, crouching to touch Adam’s shattered knee. He didn't feel it. “How are you?”

Adam almost laughed. “Don’t worry about me, kid. I have a friend. She'll fix that. ” A _kid_ , yes. He suspected none of them would get to be that for long. “How about you?”

The boy shrugged, trying to give off an air of nonchalance, but his bottom lip trembled. “I miss Popo and Gong Gong.”

“Please rest now, Heir Supreme, and leave the rest to us,” the girl said before Adam could answer. She had an English accent, taut and formal. “We are only halfway done.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. As if acting on an unspoken cue, each child picked up a dismembered Hand, kissed its fingers, and placed it carefully on their lap.

Seven small pairs of hands curled and twisted expertly to carve a sequence of Forms while an incantation spilled out in a high melody. The cast was clean and focused—no waste arcana released in the form of smoke or heat or flashing lights; all energy was put to useful work.

A perfect magical engine.

With a crescendo and a final flourish, the children spoke the names of their Families and the Hands of Glory floated before them.

Adam didn’t know what they were doing but he caught a part of the invocation referencing the _Ars Notoria._

 _What is this_ , he thought.  _Memory magic? Time magic?_

He felt Tommy stir above him and caught a flash of green in his eyes. There was a trembling above, followed by the unmistakable sound of an explosion and a rain of dust settling around them. Adam could see it in the distance: a tiny point of white where moonlight and starlight filtered in.

A sudden movement in his periphery made him turn. It was Teddy. His small hands flashed in a quick series of Forms; he blinked once, twice, and his eyes turned white. He was quiet for a while, hands rapidly snapping from Form to Form.

 _Numbers,_ Adam thought.  _He's just Forming numbers. Coordinates?_

“There. I found it,” Teddy said in a hollow boyish voice. “I’ll guide you.”

The tall girl—their leader, it seemed—touched his shoulder and knelt to the floor. With her other hand she gestured a different set of Forms, far more intricate and executed with smoother grace. It took her a few minutes to finish and then she slammed her palm on the floor.

Adam gasped as the space above him shimmered and compressed. They rushed up and up and up, hurtling through the hole in the ceiling, across the atmosphere, and plunging into space. The floor followed them and so did the air and the warmth, but the walls and ceiling had fallen away.

 _Hyperspatial Compression?_   Astonished, he studied the crumpled look of concentration on the girl’s face. But he couldn't tell how she was doing it. His brain was already slowing down and thoughts came to him muddled and clumsy, tripping over each other in an incoherent mess.

As his attention drifted, he looked around, watching stars streaking past them, and remembering a distant memory, one shared with old friends. There had been six of them then… or had it also been seven? It felt so long ago now… It was then that he had discovered the true nature of his power, the lure and danger that it presented, after Mother had followed its scent and entered this dimension. It was then that he vowed never to use Chaos again.

Then, just as abruptly, they had arrived wherever it was that Teddy was guiding them.

Above them were asteroids—no, ships! Thousands and thousands of ships, scattered above them like fireflies. An armada, by the looks of it. This must be it. The hidden enemy that was poisoning humanity, softening it for an invasion.

“We’re here,” the girl said calmly. “Quickly. Like we practiced. The vectors won't hold for long.”

More Forms. And Adam could feel the heat rolling off them. The grief. The rage. The pain. All channeled into a single spell that required seven pairs of hands and seven Hands of Glory. The energies gathered and fused, taking on an impossible density that the children of the Seven molded and hammered into the proper shape.

Adam could feel it: magic was fixed now. The gears spun smoothly and the levers turned without lethargy. The Seven worked in smooth snappish motions, a precision and fluency that could have only been acquired through ruthless pedagogy. He watched their innocent little hands claw and swipe through the air, as if pulling on the strings of the universe to compel it to their collective will.

They began singing at some point, a soulful wordless song that made Adam think of rainfall and cracking ice. And then fire and ash and death and rebirth. The buildup to something cataclysmic.

They rose to their feet and stretched out their arms over their heads, fingers still twisting with preternatural synchrony. With this, the Hands of Glory begun to rotate around their own axes and, like planets, revolved around Adam and Tommy.

 _Or like electrons around a nucleus,_ Adam thought.  _Seven electrons, missing one to complete an octet._

And with that, he realized what it was all for: the extinction of the Seven, the Hands of Glory. This was it, the prize for the cost they had paid.

This was a summoning.

“You don’t have to look,” Tommy said, squeezing Adam’s arms. “Just close your eyes.”

The children brought out their knives and cut their palms.

Adam shook his head. “I have to. This is my fault,” he said. “I don’t deserve to look away.”

Before Tommy could reply, the children reached the climax of their spell. The Hands of Glory aligned before each child and with a final invocation, the heirs of the Seven thrust the points of their knives and stabbed the Hands.

The children threw back their heads and screamed.

There was an explosion. And space turned into hell, living flame cascading through the armada until the whole of space was a roiling inferno. Burning, burning, burning, until there was nothing, not even ash.

All the while, the voices of the Seven sang out a high piercing note, climbing higher and higher until it was a shrieking inhuman sound. Too high that Adam had to cover his ears. Primal. Animalistic.

 _A birdcry_ , Adam thought, his skin prickling with terror as the children themselves burst into flames.

Above them a supernova exploded, spreading, undulating like an angry liquid sea as it decimated the ships of an unknown alien race. It had a shape—or rather it was attempting to take a shape, a being made of fire with a small head and expansive arms. The sight of it made something inside Adam shrink and cower—the part that was Chaos, made fearful and small.

Stupefied by terror, Adam could not tear his eyes from the Phoenix glare but he was thankful the heat did not seem to breach their shields.

“Ninety-five,” the children said in a chorus.

One of the boys collapsed but Tommy caught him with one arm before his head could hit the floor.

“Ninety-eight.”

Two more girls fell.

“Ninety-nine.”

Another girl. And their leader was bleeding through her eyes.

“One hundred.” And the remaining children cried out a final horrific shriek.

The fire sputtered and died.

With a gasp, the girl released the Hyperspatial Compression spell and they slammed back to Earth instantaneously.

 

 _I'm alive_ , Adam thought.  _We're all alive._

He took in deep breaths and counted slowly: one... two... three... one... two... three. He could feel Tommy still so stubbornly wrapped around him, a skinny arm supporting his neck and a hand carding through his hair. Around them, the children of the Seven lay in a circle, unconscious but breathing.

With a grunt, Adam raised a hand and began weaving the Forms for mass teleportation.

“Stop,” Tommy said, placing a hand over his, effectively extinguishing the spell. He really did look like Adam, only silver-haired and scarred. "You'll kill yourself."

Adam wanted to reach up and remove those scars, to banish the mark of suffering and, if Tommy'd allow it, to even make him forget. It would be big magic. Healing magic. At this point, it would probably kill him but he didn't care the price. Fuck it. Let Tommy live on for both of them. Fresh start. If Adam could make Tommy look just like him, as in  _really_ just like him, then maybe Tommy could start that new life with Ruixian in his place. And shit, maybe even give Ruixian what Adam could never give her. Guy could vibrate, after all. Bet she'd like that.

So he would heal him. He was sure. If it was the last spell he'd cast, he'd do it.

 _In a bit_ , he thought. _Just need to rest a little_ _. I'll do it. I swear._ _Before I_ _die._

“I gotta get us out of here," he said weakly. "I can do it now. Won't die. Swear.”

“Just rest,” Tommy replied, running his fingers through Adam's hair. “I got this, all right?”

Adam groaned, startled by this sudden request for trust. “So what happens next?” he asked softly, turning his head to stare up at Tommy’s green eyes—blue now, it seemed.

“We go home,” Tommy replied, grinning.

Adam frowned. “I burned down Le Jardin."

 _All those years, why didn't you come to me?_ he wanted to ask. But he couldn't. He had to wait. Tommy would tell him when he's ready. Maybe never but that was Tommy's right.

“So I’ve heard,” Tommy said.

“We don’t have a home anymore.”

“You’re always so dramatic.” Tommy rolled his eyes and turned away. “You know I think I prefer this version of you.”

His voice had taken a different tone. Less reproachful and less sharp. It was careful, guarded, like he was afraid of what Adam would say.

Adam frowned again. “Huh?”

“You came all this way for me.”

“Please," he said glibly. "Don't flatter yourself"

It was Adam’s turn to roll his eyes. Was he bleeding? He should be, with the stab wounds and all the ridiculous magic that he had conjured. He was going to die, he was sure. He might have wanted to say goodbye to Teddy— _his_ Teddy (though perhaps they had already said their farewells)—but dying in his brother’s arms wasn’t too bad either, as far as meaningful deaths went.

He had made a promise just now. What was it again? As always, the memory slipped from him. He was used to that now so he let it go without a fight.

“The you I knew wouldn’t have come at all," Tommy said callously, though Adam could tell that the indifference was forced. "Probably not. Well—I don’t know. And that's the fucked up part. You always sort of just forgot about me. Always left me behind. On the sidelines, you know?”

 _He was there,_ Adam thought. _He was there and he remembers me. Us. Tommy remembers. Tommy remembers_ him.

But it was the wrong place and the wrong time. And he would not make this about anything else. Not even Teddy. This was about him and his brother. Adam and Tommy. Lost sons of the Witch. No more leaving Tommy behind.

“Of course, I came for you,” Adam said, knowing what Tommy wanted to hear. He sighed and let his voice go warm. “You’re my brother.”

Tommy’s lips puckered as he smiled, which was a weird and somewhat unnerving sight. His eyes looked wet. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice sounding thick. “I am.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

Tommy punched his shoulder.

“ _Ow_ , _fuck_! It's broken! Why would you do that?!”

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know."

" _You_ broke it!"

“Sorry,” Tommy muttered. “I thought we were having a brotherly moment.”

Adam sighed, shaking his head. “I guess I’m going to die now,” he said absently. Surprisingly, his apathy was genuine; he really didn't care too much. “Goodbye, Tommy. I love you... I guess.”

Tommy snorted. “Again with the theatrics. How does he stand you?” He shifted slightly and Adam felt a hand on his forehead. He didn’t miss the way the gesture scratched his skin.

Even his fingers? How could Tommy’s fingers be scarred?

“How could he let you come here alone?” Tommy asked, running a thumb across Adam’s eyebrow. “If I really wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. All of you. You know that, right?"

Adam kept quiet, unmanned by the casual way his brother had said the humiliating truth.

"Stupid Teddy. Remind me to punch him in the dick when I see him.”

There. Again. That name. It enraged Adam, made him livid. But he didn’t have the energy to argue.

“I should punch _you_ in the dick. After what you pulled off here. I can’t believe I fell for that speedster-mage schtick.”

“I had to sell it.”

“Okay. But did you have to be somean?”

“What?” Tommy said, chuckling.

“That whole ‘you’re the villain’ line. That really hurt my feelings, Tommy.”

“Like I said: I had to sell it.”

Adam closed his eyes, welcoming death. “Well, you got what you wanted. Time to die.”

“No, really, please stop. You’re not gonna die. You’re embarrassing both of us.”

Adam felt an eyebrow twitch. “You really do talk a lot, don’t you? Can’t you just let me have this? Let me die on my own terms, please?”

Tommy groaned but kept quiet. He moved his hand to Adam's cheek and held it there, stroking Adam's eyebrow with his thumb. It felt warm and Adam leaned into the touch, mumbling sleepy nonsense things.

At some point, Tommy hummed and started playing with Adam's hair. It sounded like a lullaby, though broken and incomplete. Off-key too. But it was comforting and somehow familiar. He even began rocking again, swaying them back and forth until Adam felt soft and drowsy.

And then, just as Adam was about to die, Tommy stilled.

“Oh. Look,” he said happily. “Grandpa’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Tommy!


	10. Tommy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic extracts its price and two princes meet at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am in the midst of some stuff so I didn't really have time to properly edit this. Hopefully, I didn't make too many mistakes. Hope you enjoy it!

Adam didn’t die.

Or if he did, then someone must have made one giant fuckup of a clerical error and sent him to the wrong place. Because _this_? This wasn’t where he was supposed to go. People like him didn’t get to go to places like this.

People like him didn't deserve—what was that? Clouds? Yes, goddamn clouds. White, fluffy, cumulus clouds that conformed to his weight and wrapped around him in a loose, comforting fit, bearing with it all the safety and feeling of home in a mother's hug. Not that he would know what _that_  felt like but even one as corrupt and unnatural as Adam Thorne must have had a mother once... the Witch and another, whose name was shrouded in thick fogs of magic—two mothers, in fact, who must have loved and hugged him as a child. If he had to guess, he would think it would have felt a lot like this: warm, unconditional, and thoroughly undeserved. 

Slowly, as a newborn so freshly and unceremoniously yanked into an alien world would, he opened his eyes. But instead of the sharp clarity one might expect of the upper atmosphere, he saw a haze of colors—vague, mostly white shapes blurring into each other without proper demarcations. Perhaps this was what heaven was: metaphysical. Plato's realm of ideas so pure and insubstantial and impalpable, unlike the dirty and rigidly confining universe of mortality and material things. The true substance, infinitely more complex and incomprehensible than its shadow.

He thought there was a harp and maybe bells, too, tinkling, tinkling, tinkling. Somewhere far away, a bird cawed rather rudely.

 _Nope_ , Adam thought with something that was both relief and disappointment. _Not dead._

He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and blinked; the shapes stubbornly retained their hazy quality, like something seen through an out-of-focus camera or underwater in a heavily chlorinated swimming pool.

He was in a literal bed, deceptively made otherworldly on account of a comforter stuffed with goose down and silk sheets probably in the thousand range thread count. Fuck if he knew shit like that.

 _Maybe someone brought me back_ , he thought.

He dragged a palm over his face and tried to focus on the furniture but that strange sensation persisted in his eyes, heavy and bleary as though some milky film had settled over them. He blinked back a few times, willing them to clear.

“Myopia,” someone said in a crisp, clinical voice. “Here, try these on.”

Adam muttered his thanks as he received the glasses and settled them on his nose, where they promptly slipped down the bridge. He pushed them back up and blinked again. It was a little better. Still a little fuzzy but he could distinguish shapes now.

The room was lavishly furnished: carpets, dressers, and tapestries covering wooden walls. Polished mirrors set in gilded metal frames and paintings too—not the esoteric abstract splatters that one might normally find in modern hotels but tasteful-looking oil paintings that seemed Impressionistic to his damaged sight (though he didn’t really have the eye to tell if they were any good or if they were just for affectation). There were upholstered furniture and heavy-looking tables, vases of flowers with scents too faint to smell, and statuettes of small forest animals. Overall, the room seemed to strive for an air of a gentleman’s club.

The bells were not bells after all but wind chimes clanging noisily under the open windows. And sadly, the harp turned out to be an exotic-looking instrument, fitted with strings, gears, and sloping blades, assembled in the general shape of a windmill. It was the size of a small piano and it played out a loud relentless melody on its own; as the gears spun, their teeth caught the strings and plucked a series of drawn-out notes, which on second thought sounded more like the low, penetrating weeping of a violin.

For a moment, Adam thought Kate had redecorated the Roost. Even the _light_  was different. It smelled clean—and without the lingering scent of antiseptics or bleach either; it was pristine, as though the air had been purged to the last odorous molecule.

He spied a small bar resting against a wall, its upper shelves lined with bottles of amber liquids, glasses of various sizes and shapes, and a swan-necked decanter that looked far too decorative to be of actual function. To his far right, just by the bar, was a set of glass doors through which he could see a private balcony. And beyond that were clouds—real clouds this time—scudding across a crisp blue sky. Through the open doors, white curtains drifted in... and out... and then in again, flitting like restless ghosts in the heaving wind.

Right. So _not_ the Roost.

He turned to the man and his heart clenched at the sight of gold and blue. "Oh!" was the sound he made, an errant cry of joy that escaped his lips just as the swift hope was swiftly crushed.

"Oh!" was the sound he made, an errant cry of joy that escaped his lips. And then, when the light fell on the familiar face, eager hope was swiftly crushed.

And then, when the sunlight fell on the familiar face, eager hope was swiftly crushed.

"Oh," he said again, softly this time, audibly disappointed. “It's just you.”

“Nice to see you too, Asgardian,” Ted replied. “You’ve got myopia."

Adam stared back and sighed, schooling his features into something less tragic and crestfallen. He was getting tired of playing the yearning, heartsick adolescent. 

"Nearsightedness," Ted said again. "It’s pretty bad.”

"I know what myopia is, Ted." Adam rolled his new eyes, testing out the muscles. They felt a little worn out—like he had been rubbing them too much—but at least the colors and shapes were intact- _ish._  “Ruixian can’t fix it?”

Ted pulled back a corner of his mouth and shook his head sympathetically. “Sorry, mate.”

"Well, _shit._ " Adam let out another sigh. “These don’t fit well.”

“Those are mine. I’ll get you proper ones later.”

“At least I look good in glasses.”

"Yeah." Ted winced. “There’s more.”

“Right. Of course there is,” Adam said. “Lay it on me. I can take it.” He remembered something of the last fight and knew at once what all that magic had cost him. He closed his eyes and shook his head, half-chuckling half-sobbing to himself.  “It’s my legs, right?”

Ted nodded grimly and carefully lifted the blanket off his legs, revealing the rest of his body in a matching pair of striped pajamas; he had a slight erection, which they both pretended not to see. Gingerly, Ted pressed a forefinger on the left knee. “Feel that?”

Adam made a face and nodded hastily. His eyes watered.

“Well, that’s good,” Ted said, relieved. “Two titanium rods and sixteen screws.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “But you’ll walk. Sort of. Hobble might be the better word.”

Adam nodded again, vaguely. His mind hadn’t quite caught up yet to the significance of it all so he was angry but without conscious awareness. The part of his brain that was in charge of logic—the prefrontal lobes, was it?—was still cloyed with the stupors of sleep but the emotional part was already lamenting his eyes and his leg. It just hadn't figured out whom to blame yet so its fury was tempered by frustration.

"You're saying it will always... I will n-never..."

Ted shook his head and curled his lips in a small smile. He was looking at him with such sympathy that Adam wanted nothing else in that moment than to punch his face and rearrange his jaw a little.

Adam stared at him, glaring and breathing hard. Right then, it just made so much sense to be mad at Ted, like this were somehow his fault. And in any case, how dare this nobody pity  _him_ , Adam Thorne?! What right has  _he_ to look down on him like this?!

Ted met his gaze bravely, watching him closely. “It’s been a while—”

He tried to place a hand on Adam's shoulder but Adam slapped it away.

“—and your grandfather’s worried—”

 _Right. Grandfather. What?_ Adam almost laughed. _That would be—wait._

“Tommy!” he cried out. His hands flew to Ted’s chest, wrinkling the lapels of his shirt, and the sudden movement jostled his bad leg uncomfortably. “You gotta tell them he’s innocent. Well, no, not innocent. Not _per se._ It’s complicated. It was the Seven all along. You gotta explain—”

“Your brother’s okay, Asgardian,” Ted cut him off, grasping his wrists and pushing him away. “The whole team made it out. Everyone’s okay.”

Adam's hands dropped lifelessly to his sides and he felt the energy leave his body, all rage and panic suddenly dissipated. 

“Not everyone,” he said bitterly. He was suddenly exhausted, as though that short moment of agitation had drained him.

Ted put on another comforting smile, with a genuineness that surprised Adam. “Come on, Asgardian,” he said, and the enthusiasm that came with it was barely forced. “Let’s get you changed. They’ll want to see you.”

“Who’s they?” Adam tried to push himself up but a jolt of pain lanced up his spine. “Ow, fuck!”

“Jesus, take it easy,” Ted said, holding him up by the arms. He clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly.

He helped Adam sit up and slowly, very carefully, slid the deadweight legs over the edge of the bed. Adam hissed and gripped the sheets, tears crowding his eyes as he squeezed them shut.

“Deep breaths, mate. I gotcha.”

Adam glared petulantly, taking rapid shallow breaths through gritted teeth instead. Ted’s arm was a warm pressure against his back and he hated his treacherous body for being so weak that it had to lean most of its weight on the presumptuous limb. Oh, how he _ached_ to rip it off Ted's shoulder and beat him half to death with it.

“You all right?”

“Peachy. Fuck, it hurts.”

Ted rubbed his back and squeezed his shoulder. “Just no sudden movements. You’re fine. You’re fine.”

“How about I break your leg and let’s see how you deal with it?”

"That's nice.”

Adam groaned. Cautiously, he placed his right foot on the carpeted floor. “What’s your thing, anyway?” he asked, a little belligerently, trying to take his mind off the dull ache in his left thigh.

"My thing?” Ted echoed, a little distracted. His other hand slid down Adam's arm to compensate for the shift in weight. 

“Your powers. You’re Inhuman, right? I remember. What do you do around here?”

“Oh. I can make people believe anything.”

Adam winced as he followed with his left foot. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, once the initial shock of pain subsided. The pressure was unpleasant but not too bad. It was more of a slight throb now: annoying but tolerable. "A little rapey but cool."

“I guess.”

“What’s your codename? Silver Tongue? Propaganda Man?”

Ted snorted. “Don’t have one yet. But if I did, it’ll be Advocate. Nice, right?”

“Yikes.” He was sitting up now with both feet on the ground but even though he was still on the bed and most of his weight rested on his buttocks, he was already favoring the right hip and the muscles of his upper body clenched with the effort of holding the position.

“The fuck's wrong with Advocate? Relax, mate.” Ted’s hand glided down to the small of Adam’s back. “Let me help.”

“Nothing. Advocate’s fine. Oh, fuck! Shit! Ow! This is bullshit!” Adam squeezed his eyes shut as he fell to his side on the bed, wheezing and trembling. He took deep breaths as he waited for the discomfort to pass. 

“Thanks, Ted," he said once he felt comfortable enough to could move again. "Is it just me or is there some sexual tension here?"

"Just you," Ted said nonchalantly, holding him up again.

"No man, I'm definitely feeling something here."

"Probably wishful thinking." Ted bent down a little and shined a bright light on Adam's eyes. "And maybe a concussion. Do you feel like throwing up?"

"No, I don't," Adam said. "See? We're flirting.”

“Not flirting. Just nursing.” Ted put away the flashlight and punctuated his inspection with a satisfied nod.

“Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to presume.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen what you do in your sleep. We’re way past that.”

Adam flushed and made an embarrassed half-snort sound at the back of his throat. “I was just messing around. Did you have to make it weird?” he muttered, glad that his semi had wilted from all that business with sitting up. “I don’t think I wanna change anymore. I’ll go like this.”

“Okay,” Ted said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. He offered his arm, which Adam accepted without hesitation. “Just try standing for now. I’ll get you a wheelchair and—”

“No, no, I got this,” Adam insisted. He had all of his weight on his right foot and used Ted’s arm to balance. His left leg bent back slightly at the knee. “Let me try to walk.”

Ted gave him a pained look, mouth slightly gaping. “Are you stupid?” he asked, slowly and without irony. It didn't sound rhetorical at all.

“It’s okay, Ted," Adam said. "I know my own body.”Ted studied him for a while and then huffed out. “Can't stop you anyways. Your funeral.”

Ted studied him for a while and then huffed out a breath. “Can't stop you anyways. Your fucking funeral, mate.”

“Okay. Okay,” Adam said, taking shallow gulps of air. “I got this.”

"If you say so. Put your left foot forward."

"I know how to fucking walk, Ted."

But he didn't. Not really. It was like his body had forgotten which tendons to pull and which muscles to engage. _Maybe it's my brain trying to tell me I shouldn't_ , he thought for a moment. Was that a thing? He had never really thought about physiotherapy as a psychological endeavor but it sort of made sense.

With considerable effort, he forced the muscles to cooperate, ignoring their sharp, burning protests. After a long minute, he managed to extend his left leg forward and succeeded at a small tentative step. The sudden pressure from the contact with the floor triggered another dull throb but it wasn’t too bad—at least not bad enough to dissuade him.

“Steady, mate,” Ted said, gently patting Adam’s fingers that were digging into his arm.

Adam loosened his hold. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let's stop here and use the chair for now, yeah?”

Adam bit his lip and shook his head emphatically.

“You’re an idiot. But no better teacher than experience, I guess. At least, use my arm for leverage. Deep breaths.” Ted demonstrated, lifting his eyebrows and nodding fervently for emphasis as he puffed out his chest.

Adam mimicked him and nodded back.

“Okay. Good. Now try to move your right leg. Push down on my arm and try not to put weight on the left leg. I'd say don’t push yourself and if anything hurts, stop, but you won't listen anyway. Deep breath. I'll catch you when you fall.”

"Encouraging." Adam took the deep breath and braced himself.

"Go ahead," Ted said, shaking his head. "I dare you."

Adam took a step forward and promptly blacked out.

 

Any novice of the magical arts could tell you that there were exactly seventy-seven Classical Laws of Magic, seventy-seven guiding principles that expounded what magic was, what it wasn't, what it could do, and what it couldn't. And of these seventy-seven, it could be demonstrated that seventy-four were, in one way or another, mere derivatives ( _corollaries_ , actually, as the ancient mage Solomon had so derisively put it) of the first Three. Though these Three were often expressed as a series of formal mathematical proofs, their conclusions could be loosely approximated in words:

  1. **The First Law speaks of the relations between Magic and Metaphysics: **All known structures, systems, and constructs of magic are coherent with at least one of the three known Principal Equations of Form. Conversely, an Equation of Form is said to be Principal if and only if it could Form at least one structure of magic.
  2. **The Second Law speaks of the relations between Magic and Physics: **The total sum of matter and energy in a closed system must be conserved at all times. (Okazaki's Addendum: The total sum of matter and energy in a closed spatial system may be disturbed if and only if the total sum of matter and energy in said system is conserved within a closed temporal system.)
  3. **The Third Law speaks of the relations between Magic and the Practitioner: **No magic may be performed which does not invoke a cost from the Practitioner. Invariably, said cost is settled in full either by said Practitioner or by an acceptable cognate proxy.



The big Three. The Trinity. Font of all magic.

It's funny, really—not _ha-ha_ funny but more in the pull-your-hair-out-crying-as-you-laugh sort of funny. It was just so...  _obvious_. And so fucking predictable! Hubris of the most damning cliché!A cautionary tale is what he was: the neglectful mystic who lived his life under the guiding light of the First and Second Laws, obeyed them, _worshipped_ them only to be burned by the jealous Third Law.

It was only when it was too late that he'd come to realize that there was a flaw in the way the Laws were listed because Homer, whoever he/she/they had been, ought have written the Third Law First. In fact, it should have been made the Zeroth Law. (Sometime during the first half of the second millennium AD, once the heretic status of the number zero had been withdrawn by Christian Europe, a Zeroth Law was indeed formulated; it was a fuzzy attempt at defining magic so as to separate it conceptually from technology and other natural phenomena.)

That was the thing about magic and perhaps it was the most important thing: it always had a price. Whatever Sutan and the rest of the Seven had believed about the nature of magic, Adam understood that when you removed the touchy-feely trappings of all this bullshit philosophy, magic was first and foremost a negotiation with the universe. Whatever was given, the mage must pay the price and contrary to what modern literature would have you believe, when mystics said 'magic comes at a price', they didn't mean that in the chancy and abstract sense like the accidental death of a loved one, with a set of circumstances so bizarre and involving probabilities so extreme that it would leave you wondering whether that was somehow your fault. Sure that kind of arrangement sometimes happened, when the universe would orchestrate a series of cosmic ironies before it got its due, but only very rarely and only in cases of extremely powerful or exotic magic. For the most part, the universe simply didn't care enough to be poetic in collecting debts. And it detested ambiguities in payment; no room for doubt whether you had paid or not.

No, for most mystics, it was generally more explicit and concrete and often immediate and physical: headaches, broken bones, spilled blood, lost memories, and other miscellaneous bodily injuries. In a way, there was a sadistic glee to the system: when it was time to fork up, the universe made sure that you _know_ you've paid and that you remembered what it took from you.

And it always,  _always_ took a little more than you were willing to give.

 

When Adam came to, he was already sitting down and moving. There was a brief moment of panic before he remembered where he was. Well, not _where_ exactly, though he had a pretty good guess.

"Told ya," the nurse said, somewhere above him. Friendly. But the tone was smug and way too pleased with itself.

“Guy passes out and you parade him around unconscious?” Adam said, giving the stink-eye to a passing woman who was shamelessly staring at him.

“You’re fine. I checked. Give me some credit, will ya?” Ted said.

"It's humiliating. Why is everyone looking at me?"

“Everyone knows what happened in Cape Hope. You’re a hero, man.”

That sounded so heartfelt, Adam almost believed it.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbled, studying the argyle pattern on the blanket draped over his legs. There were scars on his arms, already healed over and turned silvery and fibrous with keloid. He touched one of them, fingertips light on the skin, and an image appeared in his head: seven knives flashing in the dark. He could almost feel them slicing through his flesh.

Ted hummed. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing.”

The hallway décor presented itself in a similar vein as his room: carpets, side tables, ormolu table pieces, and oil paintings above wainscot panels. There were no candelabras as one would have expected in an old castle such as this but there was fluorescent lighting set in hidden trenches at the sides of the gently curved ceiling, which was painted creamy white.

“It hurts so much,” Adam found himself saying. He was trying not to sound too desperate so it had come out a little whiny instead.

“You’ll live.” 

“Are you really a nurse?”

Ted thought for a moment before answering. “It's subjective.”

“Great.” Adam muttered and rolled his eyes.

Ted chuckled. “Hawkeye asked me to take care of you. You respond well to me, apparently. A bit too well, if you ask me, mate.”

Adam rolled his eyes again and watched the people streaming through the hallway. Most stole glances of him and quickly looked away when they saw him staring back (and why not? He was basically a prince in this place, if his suspicions were correct) but some stared openly and unflinchingly and even dared to whisper to each other while holding his gaze. There were those brave enough to stop and touch his shoulder, introducing themselves and dropping a kind word or praise, and a few even had the audacity and stupidity to express their gratitude.

To those, he couldn't help but respond with a sneer.

What were they thanking him for, exactly? The First Seven were the ones who'd saved everyone and now they were dead and it was all his fault for being so damn selfish and refusing to Ascend. At that, the unwitting object of his scorn would quickly apologize and leave.

Still, the faces passed him in a procession. He forgot their names almost immediately but the deeper part of his brain—the one in charge of his survival instincts— identified each one: mutant, Inhuman, mystic, even a couple of common humans. It was a veritable menagerie of the species. His brain made sure to attach the classification to each face, even without the name.

Ted whistled to himself distractedly as another woman, young and pretty, passed by. She gave him a smile and ignored Adam.

“It’s not what you think,” Adam said quietly after a few minutes, poking experimentally at his left thigh and immediately regretting it when a stab of electricity jolted up his spine.

A small Chinese boy ran past him, a Malay girl hot on his heels. The boy turned back, frowned, and shouted at Adam, “I’m Japanese!”

Smiling, Adam watched them hoot and giggle and run away. 

“You just remind me of someone,” he said, turning his attention back to the scars on his arms.

“Someone special?”

“Yeah. He—" _is? was? could have been?_ What the fuck was the proper tense for an imagined thing? Was it the conditional? Shit, did the English language still have the subjunctive? 

"He would have been,” he said, after some thought. It sounded awkward and clumsy but it felt right in his mouth.

A beat of silence.

“Oh,” Ted said softly. “I’m sorry.” It was clear that he didn't really understand what Adam meant but it was clear in his tone that he was trying.

“It’s okay,” Adam said. And then, with conviction, he added, “I’m bringing him back.”

He heard Ted sigh as they took a right turn at an intersection.

“What?” he demanded, a little defensively. A passing man turned his head and frowned at him. “Got something to say?”

“Not my place, mate.”

And that was that.

Ted pushed him through a labyrinth of hallways and sprawling rooms and finally through a pair of white wooden doors on the other side of a relatively small round room. They paused just outside the doors, both sighing as they soaked in the sun and breathed in the fresh air.

To their left was the castle wall, all green moss and gray cobbled stone, and to the right was a scrim of cascading vines, drooping thickly from a wooden beam like one of those bead-string things that one might hang under doorways in occult shops. Together, the wall and the vines formed a long corridor, though roofless overhead to let the sunlight pour in. 

And there, just behind that leafy screen, were Ruixian, Cassie, and Nate having breakfast in a patio under the direct heat of a morning sun. Eli, to Adam's surprise, was there too, ensconced on a wheelchair beside Ruixian.

 _They’re safe_ , Adam thought with immeasurable relief.

For a while, he simply watched them, content to remain unseen for now.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Ted said, patting his shoulder. “There’s a button on the side of the left armrest. Press it when you’re ready to go, aight?”

Adam looked up to give him a nod and mumbled his thanks.

Once Ted was gone, he turned back and watched his friends. The first thing that caught his eye were Cassie and Nate, huddled conspiratorially over a wrought-iron table and engaged in what looked like a conversation of severe importance. They spoke for a while, heads bent close to each other as they muttered and conferred their clandestine thoughts, and then something twisted in Nate’s placid face and he was suddenly jerking away from Cassie.

Adam smiled. Because it was Nate! Laughing! An honest-to-God full-body laugh that had him wrapping his arms around his torso and his face turning red. Adam didn’t think he’d ever seen him laugh, not like _that_. Cassie placed a hand on his shoulder and giggled along, a pleasant tittering sound that drifted all the way to Adam’s hiding place. He smiled when he saw the furtive glances, the small smiles, and the casual way they touched. He saw Nate leaning in to whisper some secret thing to Cassie’s pink ear, lips brushing a little too close to the skin—though that might just be an illusion of Adam's ill-fitting glasses. It felt private so he looked away.

On the other side of the patio, Ruixian was hard at work. Adam watched her just as she moved her hand from Eli’s arm to his chest, her face scrunching up with frustration as she confronted an internal obstruction that only she could see. All the while, her mouth moved relentlessly as it unleashed a litany of profanities at a terrified Eli.

What it must be like to be trapped inside one’s head, his own body a prison. It hadn’t even been a day yet since Adam had learned he’d lost a leg and already he could feel it poisoning his spirit and filling him with spite. What more to be so wholly and completely broken for _years_? He recalled his time in the Roost and remembered that feeling of helplessness and despair. To feel that way for years... He couldn't imagine it.

He wondered if Eli knew where they were.  _Does he know we're in Genosha?_  he thought _Or does he think we're still in the Sanctuaire?_

 _Does he understand what was taken from him? Does he know what's become of him?_ Adam hoped not. Better that his mind were broken too so it couldn't suffer in helpless self-pity.

Idly, he realized that Eli had paid a price too.

And with that epiphany, he felt like he had unlocked one of the secrets of the universe: _all_ power came with a cost. Magic... MGH... even mutation and terrigenesis. Maybe even politics and money. Didn't matter which form, power always had a price. Was that one of the Rules?

For a long moment, Adam listened to the wind and the rustling of leaves. Then, he snorted. _Nah_.He dismissed the thought, smirking a little at his own self-indulgence.

He tried to think of other things as he watched Ruixian move her powerful hands all over Eli's body. After a few minutes of poking and pressing and caressing, she made a satisfactory grunt. She retracted her palm from Eli’s eyes, waved her fingers in front of his face, and beamed when he nodded.

With a look of great concentration on his face, Eli lifted a timorous hand and slowly brought his forefinger to the tip of his nose. He made a sound, which might have been a cry or a squeal or a laugh, and then did the same thing with his other hand. Again, another sound. He repeated the gesture with the first hand, faster this time, and then once more with the other. Again, and again, and again, even when sometimes he missed and his finger landed on a lip or a cheek instead.

He looked over to Nate and Cassie and flashed a lopsided grin, one almost as snarky and self-satisfied as it had been in their youth. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

 _Broca's Aphasia_ , Adam thought. _Still. G_ _ood progress._

But that didn’t seem to phase Eli. He made loud breathing noises with his open mouth and repeated his trick while everyone watched, rapt as if he were executing a complex performance for them. Cassie even leapt to her feet and all but flung herself at him; tears gathered in her eyes and she mumbled something as she held his face in her hands. Nate must have said something stupid or insensitive because Ruixian and Cassie both snapped their heads towards him and glared. 

Adam observed them for a long time, relishing the sounds of laughter drifting through the trellises. A small, selfish part of him wanted to announce his presence and join them but he knew that once he rolled through that wall of vines, the spell would break. They would take one look at him broken and crippled in his chair and soon they'd be talking about the Seven and Tommy and all the sad tragic things in between.

 _No_ , let them have this moment of happiness under the sun, away from Adam and the shadow he brought with him; God knew how much they deserved this.

Adam smiled and sighed to himself. He stayed for a while longer, watching them laugh with excitement as they goaded Eli to other, more convoluted tasks. Eli looked a little tired and overwhelmed but he entertained them gamely; he was failing half the time but he was trying _so hard_. Still so much work to do but at least his motor skills were coming along.

Adam was about to summon Ted when a movement caught his eye— _there!_ —further down along the wall of vines, someone was watching. The man made a beckoning gesture and turned away.

Adam rolled himself along the narrow brick path and followed the man. It wasn’t much of a distance and the wheels spun smoothly and easily but by the time the passageway opened to a vast semi-circular balcony, his arms were already sore from exertion.

A single tree, of species unknown to Adam, grew out of the center of the balcony—haphazardly as thought it had forced its way between the cobbles by brute force and exploded out the floor, as evidenced by the tumble of broken rocks surrounding the roots—and aside from a table and a few chairs scattered under the shade, the space was completely unadorned.

Adam smiled to himself as a wayward leaf caught his attention. It clung tenaciously to a branch until the gust caught it, ripped it off, and threw it in the currents of the wind. His eyes followed it as it drifted farther and farther up, cresting high over the balcony and then falling suddenly. It disappeared in the distance, where, behind the chipped and weathered stone baluster, the crumbling remains of Genosha littered the landscape—rusted brown shards of half-broken buildings stabbing at a white sky. Hundreds of feet of sky and empty air between them and he could still see it, even with his broken eyes, though perhaps he saw it more in his mind: roads torn up and cracked, cars sitting empty under the baking sun, and deserted homes filled with beds and toys and picture frames, with memories that no one would now remember. A dead city encased in nothing but silence and blowing dust.

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter._

“Good morning, Mister Thorne,” the man said from one of the chairs under the tree. The last time Adam had seen him, he was gaunt and ashen-faced but now he was positively skeletal: sunken cheeks, protruding cheekbones, the plates of a slightly misshapen skull stretching the skin of his bald head. There was almost an exaggeration to it and in his simple, thin, off-white overalls, it was hard to conceive of him as a king, much less the infamous mutant who had brought nations to their knees. Instead, he was like one of those crude HIV metaphors you’d see on formulaic tv shows.

“Morning,” Adam said, rolling the rest of the way. Politely, he waved away the mug that was offered to him. “I thought you didn’t like coffee.”

“I’m told it’s good coffee,” his grandfather said. He had a laptop on the table and his own mug, which he used as a paperweight for a thick stack of folders. “Indonesian. Very expensive. Your brother likes it but to be honest I prefer my coffee beans undigested by a cat.”

“Cherries.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re cherries. Not beans.”

“They’re the same thing once the cat’s done with them.”

Adam hummed indifferently. Melaka had a stall that sold the stuff but he was no gourmand; he never took to it either, of reasons probably more psychological than anything.

“So. You must have a lot of questions.”

“Not really, no,” Adam said. “I knew who you were, Jacob.”

The man smiled, thin lips stretching so tight they looked like they might break. “Really?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve always sort of suspected. And you practically told me when we met in Lowtown.”

Magneto laughed. A soft, raspy chuckle. He closed his laptop and crossed his long legs neatly. “Not explicitly but you know, I almost did. I just didn’t think you were ready.”

“Ready for what? No offense but I didn’t really care back then and I don’t think I care right now either. So whatever it is you’re planning, I don't really know if I want to be a part of it. And what makes you think I’m ready now, anyway?”

“No, but we don’t have the luxury of waiting for you anymore.”

Adam felt a shard of anger prickle under his skin. “That thing with the Seven. That was you? You convinced them to kill themselves and you used Tommy to do it?”

Jacob stared at him for a while, a tired look settling on his face as he gave Adam time to calm down. For a moment, he looked so old. “It wasn't me, Adam,” he said, slowly, with the patience of a man who had learned long ago how to wait. “The plan was all theirs.”

“But you let them use Tommy? Your own grandson?”

“You think  _I_ control your brother?" Jacob smiled again, looking amused. "That I have any say? No one forced him. They offered him a choice: a few hundred lives in exchange for billions. He made a decision and he saved the world. You _both_ saved the world.”

Adam looked away and glared at nothing in the distance.

Behind the baluster, he watched the sand amidst the ruins, rising and roiling around the crumbling dereliction as though the earth itself was reclaiming the dead city, making it look like the leftover carcass of some post-apocalyptic world, which, in more ways than one, it was.

He had never been to Genosha, hallowed city of mutants, their promised land, Ithaka after their long odyssey, Canaan, Mecca—or perhaps Golgotha. He had expected a sense of grave sorrow or even awe at finally seeing the ruined sanctuary but instead, he felt strangely empty. It might have been his bad eyes or the dull pain radiating up his left leg or even the events at Cape Hope. Whatever it was, it had managed to reach deep inside him and rearrange something vital. Now, the sight of Genosha confronted him in all its glorious desecration and it was almost… boring.

 _It’s just a city_ , he thought, shaking his head and forcefully extricating himself out of his reveries. _Just steel and concrete. Who cares for memories?_

"Is that what we did?" he asked quietly, looking down at his hands on his lap, unable to look his grandfather in the eye. "Save the world?"

“Yes. Well... not yet. Almost,” Jacob said, sounding suddenly grim. “That fleet that the Seven destroyed was just the vanguard. More will come.”

Adam glanced at Jacob and made a soft response. “So all that blood…. for nothing?”

“Not nothing, no. They restored magic and bought us time, time we desperately need to muster the forces we have secretly been gathering for over half a—”

He stopped abruptly and caught himself mid-thought. “Sorry, I got carried away,” he said with another smile. “There’ll be time later for all that. Right now, I just want to make sure that my grandson is all right. How’s your leg?”

Adam blew away a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “I’ll walk,” he said curtly. He was feeling petulant and angry about his leg and his eyes and God knows what else so he decided to vent some of it. “What do I call you, anyway? Do I keep calling you Jacob? Magneto? How about Erik? Because whatever it is, it’s not gonna be grandpa. Grampagneto, maybe? Again, no offense, it’s just that the last time we met you threatened to shove steel rods in my mouth so I don't think I'll use the paternals.”

“I’m sure that isn't how that conversation went,” Jacob said, pursing his lips. “And you can call me whatever you want. Jacob… Erik… Magneto… Magnus too if you’d like. You could even call me Joseph. I’ve had so many names it doesn’t really matter at this point.”

“It matters,” Adam said solemnly.

“Not to me, child. Oh, what’s in a name?”

"Everything," Adam said in a low and clear voice. “I can tell you personally that there's a lot of power in a name.”

Jacob was quiet for a moment as he thought this through. “I don’t know if I agree with that,” he said, finally. “But if it's so important to you, call me by the name my parents gave me. Since you and I are family.”

“Max, then.” Adam smiled. He chose to ignore that part about family. “Max Eisenhardt.”

Max Eisenhardt arched an eyebrow, looking impressed but not particularly surprised. “Not many people know that," he said. "I made sure of it,” he added after a brief pause.

"See? See?" Adam teased. "There you are again threatening physical violence on me."

Max laughed, which, in his emaciation, was a disconcerting sight. One could never get used to the grotesquerie. Adam was skinny (Tommy too, actually, come to think of it. Maybe it ran in the family.) but Max was extreme to the point of evoking worry; he wasn't just thin, he was _sharp._  Andwhen he folded his arms over his chest, they were twig-like and bereft of muscular definition—even a little pointy with bony protrusions. To say that he was all skin and bones might have been an overestimation.

“You know, I think I might have been obsessed,” Adam said, once the old man had stopped laughing.

“With me?”

“With superheroes.”

“Oh.” Max grinned, looking amused and self-conscious at the same time. He might have even blushed, though it was hard to tell if his arteries had enough blood for that. “You thought I’m a superhero?”

“Sure,” Adam said, flashing another teasing smile. “Why not.”

“There it is.” Max's eyes crinkled and his mouth twisted playfully, hiding something fond and secret as he thought of something else. He lifted a hand to place on Adam's shoulder, paused halfway, and then thought better of it and pulled back.

They passed the time exchanging stories. Max told him of his years since the War: just like Adam, he had been hiding from the Avengers, jumping from city to city in his crusade to liberate mutants from registration camps. It was the intel that decided where he went, he explained. He launched on an edifying lecture about his spy network and his efforts to repopulate Genosha with robust genetic lineages identified by genealogical studies he salvaged from the camps he had destroyed. He spoke of fusing these bloodlines to create stronger and hardier mutants but scoffed at Adam’s comment that it basically amounted to eugenics. He talked of his campaigns to restore Genosha’s infrastructure and to reinvigorate the economy and, to Adam’s great surprise, admitted that he planned to open the city gates to Inhumans, mystics, and other refugees once he had established some form of political stability—though he vehemently denied that it was Stark’s Sanctuaire Chamonix that had inspired him to more inclusive policies.

For his part, Adam told his grandfather the tale of his exile: from Wolverine and Mother and that disaster of a memory spell, all the way to Maria and the Sanctuaire. He could tell that Max had already heard most of his stories (he had probably been keeping tabs on Adam the whole time) but the old man listened and nodded along anyway, smiling and shaking his head whenever necessary.

At some point, it started to feel like they were old friends catching up—which in some ways they were; Max, after all, had been Adam's confidant and protector for eight years, though under the guise of another name. And a part of Adam had always suspected that, just like him, the man who'd called himself Jacob was more than he purported to be.

When they'd finally run out of personal things to talk about, they settled for drinking the cat-poop coffee and debated whether it was fair to other coffee to call _kopi luwak_ coffee since it was brewed from berries. Adam argued for forwardness and flexibility but Max Eisenhardt, though an avowed coffee-hater, was staunchly against the idea. Beverage political correctness, he called it. At some point, they reached a détente when the discussion degenerated into linguistic philosophy, for which neither of them had the stamina to argue further.

Talking grew difficult after that and it broke down to a conscious exercise at conversation, composed mostly of stilted and abortive forays into small talk. But the company was good enough for Adam (Magneto was his grandfather—his _grandfather_! There might have been a time when the thought would have excited him and maybe even made him wet his pants a little.); the crisp sun felt good on his skin and it wasn’t too humid like in Singapore or Madripoor. Most of all, at this altitude, there was a pleasant chill to the air that made it hard to sweat.

Max rolled his chair closer to the baluster so they could look at the city more properly but the sight didn’t interest either of them much. Max asked about his leg again and held fingers in front of his eyes, asking him how many he was holding up. Adam laughed good-naturedly before slapping the hand away.

Once attempts at humor had grown stale and they had exhausted themselves comparing battle scars, they fell quiet again and looked out over the desolate city, which from this vantage point was a remarkably flat terrain, as though some thoughtful cosmic hand had slapped the island so that a city could be built on the levelled soil. It wasn’t always like that, Max told him. Not before the sentinels came. And then something changed in his grandfather's face and the man was quiet again.

“Be careful with him,” Max said, after a while, resting his forearms on the railing as he leaned over and looked at the sheer drop below. “He was a prisoner for years before the Seven broke him out.”

Adam turned away from the city and stared at Max's profile. “How long?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“You could have one of your spies find out.”

“He didn't want to tell me so I didn’t think it was right to pry.”

“Yeah.” Adam nodded. He didn’t really know what to say; he hadn’t figured out how to deal with his brother yet.

Another pause. Somewhere, down in the city, something with wings squawked and took flight.

“He’s doing better now,” Max went on. “At least that’s what the Seven told me. They were the ones that took care of him. Poor bigoted things, they didn't like mutants much but it was regrettable what happened to them. Strong people. Shame, we could have used them for what's to come next.” He leaned back and placed his hands on the top of the railing, rubbing the stone with his thumbs. His back pulled up straight and taut like he a steel cable under high tension. “He’s better now,” he said again, with greater conviction, as though to convince himself. He was starting to sound more regal, more powerful. “Regardless, I advise you to be careful with him. Especially now. Since you got here, he has been… different. Unpredictable. Implacable like your uncle and volatile like your mother.”

 _My mother_ , Adam thought.  _Our mother._  It was the first time Max said it out loud and even though Adam already knew that the Witch was his mother, somehow it had only become real after his grandfather himself had pronounced the fact. A confirmation, almost.An acceptance. Something soft and warm blossomed in Adam's chest, chasing away the anger and the resentment and the spite. Such was the power of names, after all.

"You two are my daughter's children and I—" Max paused and heaved a deep sigh. His lips moved a little in something that was almost a smile, though it carried a little pain too. “I know something of what your brother's going through,” he went on, his slightly glaucomic eyes falling to watch his hands. His voice sounded faraway and it was clear that he was already walking the soils of another world. “I too have tasted human cruelty and the special hatred reserved for those who are different. I tried to tell him that once, to build some form of rapport. I wanted to let him know he wasn’t alone.”

“How did that go?” Probably not too well.

“He tried to stab me in the eye.”

“Jesus.”

Max nodded. “The knife was metal so it wasn’t too bad.”

He paused again and frowned, like he was trying to physically wrench the thought out of his brain. “Perhaps…” his voice drifted uncertainly, distracted by some internal struggle. “Perhaps my suffering has never been as thorough or as relentless as your brother’s. Or as prolonged. But I see myself in him. Especially now that you’re here, I can see it in his eyes. He feels protective of you, do you know that? Aggressively so. Wouldn’t leave your side when you got here. I had to drag him out of your room myself so your friend could attend to you.”

That wasn’t too surprising; there was a certain… _stickiness_ to Tommy, even back in the cave. Adam had felt the same thing too, that physical, quasi-gravitational pull in his chest when he stepped in that throne room of four hundred rotting corpses. And perhaps it had been there in the very beginning as well, in that first moment he’d learned of Tommy’s existence. It was there, he was sure, in that drive that had compelled him to find his brother in the first place before it had all gone upside-down and turned to shit.

He searched himself now for that old sentiment, that pull, and came up shamefully lacking. It had faded and became weak, but it wasn’t quite extinguished; there was still just a little of that burning affection remaining. Still there, he supposed (and wished): something fiercely resembling fondness, something that was like love or at least sentimentality, buried beneath a mountain of fear, distrust, and uncertainty. It had somehow been reduced to an ember but it was alive. Tiny and flickering but stubbornly alive.

“I’ll protect him too,” Adam said. “I promise. I won't let anyone ever hurt him again." The words felt clunky in his mouth. Heavy. Forced. "Well, except for me. But only when necessary. Or when he's being annoying. But other than that, no one else." They were brothers. And siblings said shit like that, right?

His grandfather chuckled and nodded. “Oh, I know that. We always look out for each other in this family. I’ve done my best to take care of you both but I won’t always be here. And not for long." He smiled a soft smile of acceptance and spread his arms to his sides, as if to present his dying body to Adam. "I know you two will look out for each other. You won’t make the same mistakes my children did and fall apart, I think.”

“No, we won't. I swear.”

“I know. You two together, I doubt anyone can lay a finger on you.” He said it analytically and without conceit: a cold statement of fact. He paused again as he collected himself. "No, I need you to protect Tommy from himself. Have you seen his body?”

 _All scars_ , Adam thought.  _What does that have to do with protecting Tommy from himsel—_

“Wait," he said, as his mind grappled with the implication. "Does he…?” He couldn’t finish the thought himself.

Max turned to him and shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know. I can't seem to figure out what the boy does with his free time. Not for a lack of trying, I assure you. He's a very private person. But I do know he’ll do anything for you—get hurt _for you_ , if necessary. You make sure he doesn’t.”

“I will,” Adam said. “I promise.”

"I think it's clear that Tommy is troubled. I want to help but he wouldn't let me." Max paused and shook his head. His eyes flitted towards Adam and held his gaze. "But  maybe you could. Take care of him, all right?"

"I will," Adam said and this time, he felt himself meaning it with every fiber of his being. "I swear."

Max nodded, satisfied. “Thank you, Adam.”

There was another sound, somewhere down in the city, a woman shrieking followed by a child laughing. The distance made it faint but in the relative silence of the dead city, it carried all the way up to the castle.

Adam let his eyes drift for a moment and found himself looking for the source of the sound.

"Tell me about the Witch," he said.

That strange look crossed Max's face again, that pained twist of lips and eyes that filled with shame and fondness and regret. He averted his gaze to his hands.

"She was your mother," Adam's grandfather said, in a voice weighed down by memory. "And before the world knew her as the Witch, she was my Wanda..."

 

He was dreaming.

Not a Teddy-dream, but a real dream.

In it he was a bird perched on a rock. He was a seagull, he thought, or a kingfisher or a heron, or a goldfinch—no, that was a herbivore; he was a fearsome predator, carnivorous, some swift-winged scourge of the sky. So definitely not a goldfinch.

But that was detail. _He_  wasn’t important.

What’s important was the fish. A special fish. Unique fish. There was nothing like it in the whole wide world.

The bird spied it beneath the green waters of a flat sea, darting between corals, shy blue-gold flashes just beyond the reach of its pointed beak. The bird took flight and chased the fish, circling the world, once, twice, thrice before it got tired and gave up.

And so it returned to its rock and picked at its feathers to groom its wings where the wind had ruffled it.

Only when the bird wasn’t looking did the fish make its move. It lunged out of the water, grabbed the bird by its wing—sharp teeth, lightning-edged—and dragged it underwater.

 

Adam woke with a cry, confused, disoriented, not knowing where he was.

Above him, a ribbon of light shimmered and wavered like a curtain. He squinted, trying to focus on its crisp edges, and remembered that his eyes didn’t work anymore. He became aware of his left hand, which was terribly cramped and stuck in the Form sustaining the blue-gold borealis.

 _That’s not right,_ he thought as he used his other hand to pry apart the rigid fingers. With the Form broken, the spell crumpled and fell apart, banishing the conjuration. _Magic's fixed now._ _That should be the full spectrum… Must’ve mangled the invocation._

Breathing hard, he brought the cramping hand to his forehead and pushed away a lock of hair that had stuck over his eye. He was drenched in cold sweat and his bad leg was throbbing something fierce. He must have moved it in his sleep.

“Bad dream?” said a muffled voice in the dark, somewhere immediately to his right.

His body stiffened at the sudden sound and the jostling shot a flash of pain up his spine.

“ _Owww,_ fuck.”

“I have them too,” Tommy went on. He was lying on his side, an arm draped over Adam’s chest and his face smushed against Adam’s shoulder. “Not as much as before. But they never go away.”

Adam closed his eyes and took deep breaths, just as Ted had taught him, waiting for the pain to subside to something more tolerable.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Bad dream."

"I tried to wake you up. Wanted to show you the night market."

Strange. He remembered that he used to be a light sleeper.

"Yeah," he said again. "Tired."

He could still feel it now: that heavy, overwhelming exhaustion bearing down on him, as though trying to make up for all those years of lost sleep. It felt good to have his eyes closed and let the thoughts slip away. His head hurt a little with the effort of staying awake and he didn't really have the willpower to fight it. And so down, down, down, he went.

“I dreamed I was a bird,” he continued once his leg had recovered, which might have been a minute or an hour later. He opened his eyes and kept them fixed on the ceiling.

“Lame,” Tommy murmured. He lifted his right leg and rested it on top of Adam's. 

“It was nice, actually,” Adam said. With a wince, he pressed a palm over his left thigh, prodding and massaging experimentally to ease the soreness. “I was flying.”

Tommy stirred and Adam caught the shine of blue eyes staring up at him with its too-bright glare.

“And there was a fish,” he said, closing his eyes again. “Nice fish.”

“Gross,” Tommy said. “How'd it taste like?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t catch it. You know, I think you can't smell or taste things in your sleep. I think I read that somewhere.”

Tommy hummed again and yawned noisily. “You’ll fly again,” he murmured.

He pressed his face back against Adam’s shoulder, snuggled closer, and fell asleep.

 

When Adam woke up again, he felt wind in his hair and hair tickling his face.

Someone grunted in front of him and he felt the rhythmic, intermittent movement of back muscles pressed against his chest. His chin was resting on someone’s shoulder—Tommy’s?—and his forearms were wrapped loosely around a slender neck, wrists secured together with a belt; he saw skinny arms—not his—alternating as they reached overhead to haul their bodies up against the pull of gravity.

These were the impressions he woke up to, harmless pieces of observation that he noted with cold detachment. He murmured sleepily and tried to go back to sleep. Only something in him fought back and his brain, instead of sinking back into the stupor of slumber, started turning and racing; something niggled in his head, screaming danger and imminent death. Something was wrong.

His eyes snapped open and his breath hitched in his throat.

“What the fuck,” were his first words as he blinked in the soft and fuzzy sight of a starry black sky around him. Once the initial shock had passed, his lungs released the air in a ragged, shaking exhale.

He tried to struggle and pull away (an _unfathomably_  stupid thing to do, upon further reflection) but he couldn't find purchase and his chest was pressed firmly against Tommy’s back, immobilized by more belts encircling their joint torsos. His legs were a dead weight, hanging freely from his hips and swinging in a way that should have conjured excruciating pain. But instead a weird vibration clamped tight over them, cradling the torn muscles and holding together the bone fragments like a strategically placed cast.

“What the fuck, Tommy!” he managed to cry out as he squeezed his eyes shut. The high winds howled around them and below them waited the empty drop, which, despite having his eyes closed, he could somehow _feel_  in the pit of his stomach. He leaned back slightly, as far as Tommy's makeshift harness allowed, and took a daring look at the ground below. “Shit!”

Tommy was scaling a wall, _hundreds_ of feet up, and he had Adam strapped on and fastened to him like a backpack.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Adam muttered, shivering. He squeezed his eyes shut again and buried his face in Tommy’s hair, which was warm and damp but smelled only very faintly of sweat.

They went on like this for a few minutes (though to Adam those minutes felt egregiously prolonged); he grumbled profanities under his breath and Tommy grunted as he methodically executed their vertical ascent. They didn’t speak—or rather, Adam spoke but Tommy ignored him. He braved the occasional glance over his shoulder, when his nerves could take it, hoping someone would see them and safely bring them down, by force if necessary. But they were too far up and it was too dark and he couldn’t make out anything without his glasses anyway.

He tried to call for help but Tommy did something with the air that distorted and dispersed the sound waves. He thought of using magic but quickly dismissed it; he didn't think he could withstand a teleportation spell just yet. A last resort, perhaps.

At some point, Tommy heaved them over a parapet and Adam realized that they'd they reached the top of a tower. There, Tommy took a short break, panting as he bent over and rested his hands on his knees; he continued to ignore Adam’s protests and pretended to look around while he caught his breath. Adam could feel their sweat—Tommy's from physical exertion and his from sheer terror—soaking through their shirts and mingling abominably on his chest.

"Tried to wake you up, man," Tommy huffed, sounding annoyed, like this were somehow  _Adam's_ fault.

With another groan, he stood back up. He walked over to the other side of the tower, clambered over the parapet, and without warning, released his hold on the wall.

Adam screamed as they dropped through the darkness, the wind rushing through his hair as they plummeted to their deaths. But a split-second later and Tommy was landing on the narrow width of a flying buttress, smart and sure on his feet as a cat.

"Fuck's sake," he mumbled. He rubbed his left ear, which had taken the brunt of Adam's scream, and hit his temple a few times with the heel of his hand. Then, he clicked his tongue and was quiet again.

He took a few tentative steps forward, sliding his feet carefully along the smoothly fitted stones and balancing himself by spreading his arms to his sides. With a hum, he changed his mind. He leaned forward and bent his knees to a low crouch.

The wind howled around them as Tommy inched their way up the steep gradient, both quiet so as not to distract from the slippery track. To either side was a precipitous drop but Tommy's steps were careful and sure-footed, never once buckling or veering unstably to one side. They trudged on until they hit a deadend, where they were confronted by another vertical wall. Adam squeezed his eyes shut as Tommy slowly straightened his back and locked his knees, stick-thin legs shaking precariously on the sloping buttress.

With his arms still around Tommy’s neck, Adam laid down the foundations to a kinetic spell; he knew it was stupid to do magic right now so he didn’t finish the cast. Instead, he left out the last Form so he could trigger the spell in a jiffy just in case they fell.

Again, Tommy continued their arduous climb, grunting and groaning as his hands and feet shifted expertly between crevices and jutting stone. He hefted them easily enough with his lithe, weak-looking limbs, though it was almost surprising to see such thin arms accomplish such feat of strength when they looked so weak and so feeble that Adam almost expected them to snap from their combined weight. Halfway up, a stray gust blew and the temperature suddenly plunged. Adam shivered and only then did Tommy stop; there was a quick flash of green, reflected dully by the granite surface, and the air around them began to vibrate. Soon enough, heat seeped back through Adam’s skin, warming his muscles and bones until he felt toasty and comfortable. And then Tommy was climbing again.

“Thanks,” Adam muttered, to which Tommy, predictably, didn’t bother to respond.

It was as though he was consumed by that singular intent: climb, climb, climb. And even though Adam didn’t know why Tommy was doing this, he remembered what their grandfather told him. _Be careful with him._  So he pressed his face against Tommy’s wet hair, kept quiet, and hoped his brother didn’t slip; kinetic spells, even the simplest ones, were never trivial and he wasn't too sure that his body could take one right now.

To be honest, he didn’t know what to do. He was almost glad that Tommy wouldn’t speak to him. In fact, it was almost a relief that he didn't know why Tommy was dragging them hundreds of feet up the castle wall in the middle of the night. Because if he knew... if he understood... then he'd be compelled to talk. And what was he supposed to say? What words could he wrench out of himself to soothe what seemed to him like some form of psychological break?

A psychotic break. Fuck, was he really that bad for Tommy?

He couldn’t help but sense that there was a deeper significance to this. A meaning that Tommy was trying to communicate to him. But whatever that was, it was in a language that was lost on him. So he kept his mouth shut and waited until his brother was ready to talk.

When at last they’d reached the summit, Tommy hoisted them over another parapet and onto a square enclosure that couldn’t have been longer than four feet to each side. He stood up straight, unbuckled the belts, and released the clasps, spinning just in time to catch Adam before he fell to the ground. Carefully, he settled Adam on the ground like some fragile porcelain thing, making sure that Adam's back was resting against the parapet and his legs were stretched out in front of him.

“This is my favorite spot,” Tommy said after a while, still panting, his silver hair flashing in the moonlight as he swept it to one side. Pressing his hands on the small of his back, he arched his spine and winced. “Here.” He fished something out of a fanny pack—which Adam was only now noticing and _wow_ , okay, _dork_ —and handed Adam his glasses.

Then he ran from corner to corner, side to side, a silver blur streaking across the enclosure like a crazed subatomic particle bouncing against the walls. Then, he stopped in the middle of the square and turned to Adam, eyes wide and grinning. “Up here we can see _everything."_

And they did. Over the top of the parapet, Adam saw that they were at the highest point in the castle, which meant they were at the highest point in the city; no other structure came close to their own private tower. They were hundreds of feet up and around them was nothing but sky and empty air, all the world a shrunken memory beneath them—a thought so far away. It was a cloudless night and so he could see stars and a half-moon hanging low by the horizon. And only if he strained his neck a little could he see the surrounding city below: Genosha sprawled out like a messy grave of half-buried bones.

“You can fly,” Tommy said, glancing suspiciously at him through the corner of his eyes. 

 _Is that what this is all about?_ Adam thought. “Sorry but I can’t." He gestured at his left leg. "Haven’t in years. Can’t even walk anymore. That why we’re up here?”

Tommy nodded.

“What’s the plan, throw me off the tower and see what happens?”

Tommy gave him a mischievous, tight-lipped smile and nodded emphatically. “Later. When we go back down.”

“Fuck off, man. You’re going to kill me.”

“Pretty sure it’ll work. And if it don’t, I run faster than you can fall. I’ll just catch you and you’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t!” Adam’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “Even if you catch me, I'll—Physics doesn’t work like that, Tommy!”

“It does for me!” the speedster insisted.

Adam released a long-suffering breath. “Whatever. We're _not_ doing it,” he said, with emphasis.

“Oh, come on!” Tommy actually stomped his foot, earnestly and petulantly as though Adam were being unfair. “Aren’t you curious?”

“Not at all. I know how the ground tastes like.”

“Fine. But you’ll change your mind.”

“No, I won’t." He paused and frowned. "Couldn’t you have used the stairs? You can't wake up a guy like that, man.”

Tommy shrugged as he sat down beside Adam. He bumped their shoulders and pressed their sides together.

“Yeah but that’s no fun.”

Adam snorted but he shook his head and smiled to himself. Tommy liked to touch, he understood now, and even though it felt a little uncomfortable and weird, a deeper, more essential part of him didn't mind at all.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” he said fondly.

Tommy's face softened and he turned away, resting his cheek on his knees.

_Oh. Right. Fuck._

“Sorry,” Adam said immediately, realizing what he'd done. “Fuck. Shit. I’m _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. It was a joke. I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Tommy said in a small voice. “I just don’t like that word. I mean I know that I—I mean sometimes I do things I don't remember or—I know, I know, I do things and I know they're not rational and—and—”

A pause. Something caught in his throat and his body tensed up.

"Tommy, I'm sorry. I—"

The winds howled around them, eating away their words and making it hard to hear. Adam caught a green flash and the air stilled.

“Here,” Tommy said after a few minutes, rummaging in his fanny pack again. He took out a metal flask and passed it to Adam. “Thought you might like some.” He was grinning again and his voice came out clear and conversational.

“Are there people down there?” Adam asked, taking a gulp of fortification as he dared lean back slightly and look over the parapet again. Still a little dizzying. And whiskey. Gross. He never did like the hard stuff but he didn’t let it show on his face. “Thanks.”

He offered the flask back but Tommy only raised a hand and shook his head. “Can’t. Liver’s bust,” he said. He lifted his shirt and pointed casually at the pink vertical scar running down from the hollow of his throat to just above the belly button.

Adam frowned and unconsciously lifted a finger to touch it but Tommy pulled down his shirt and turned away.

“Um, I also got you this,” he continued, smiling excitedly as he looked inside his fanny pack. He dug around and suddenly froze, a horrified expression on his face. “Shit.” His voice was barely audible.

“What’s that?” Adam asked. “Let me see.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. He shook his head, wide-eyed and looking pale. “I’ll just climb back down and get you another—”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Tommy,” Adam insisted, smiling back as he rolled his eyes. He was going for 'casual and nonchalant', trying his best to hide how scared he was of saying the wrong thing again.

Reluctantly, Tommy retrieved his hand from the back and extended his fist forward, keeping it stubbornly clenched.

“Show.” Adam tapped lightly on his wrist.

Tommy’s fingers slowly unfurled and there, settled in the cusp of his palm, was a single cigarette, bent and crumpled with its guts spilled out. “Sorry,” he mumbled, watching Adam anxiously. “Must have crushed it on the way up.”

“Oh.” Adam’s eyes moved slowly from the stick to Tommy’s pale face, which was a mixture of expectant and apologetic. He chose his words slowly and spoke softly. “Um, thanks. But, uh, I don’t really smoke.”

Tommy’s face crumpled. “Are you sure? I can—”

“No, no, it’s not the cigarette. It’s fine. I just don’t want any. You can have it, though, if you want.”

“Can’t.” Disappointed, Tommy returned the stick to his pack. “Lungs.”

Adam’s hands fisted at his sides but he kept his face smooth. "Oh, that's, um, that's too bad. I'm sorry to hear that."

Tommy looked at him briefly and shrugged self-consciously. "Yeah. Thanks."

Adam wanted to scream and hit something, rain down lightning on the people who’d done this to his brother and do the same to them. Find them and hurt them. Hurt them good, hurt them slow, hurt them til they’re dead.

“Got this too, if you want,” Tommy said. He was starting to sound desperate, speaking so fast the words had started to merge. He shifted the pack slightly, discreetly, so Adam could see its contents.

Adam froze. “Is that..." It came out in a whisper. "Is that _cocaine_?”

“Speed,” Tommy said, sounding triumphant; he must have mistaken Adam’s shock for enthusiasm.

Adam stared at his brother for a moment, startled. “Tommy, put that away,” he said slowly. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” Tommy suddenly snapped. His arm blurred as he threw the fat plastic bag away. It hurtled through the sky, arcing parabolic and falling somewhere on the city below. “Tell me what you want so I can give it to you!”

“Okay, listen to me. I don’t want any of this, okay? I want you.” He looked into Tommy’s eyes and placed his hands on his shoulders. “No gifts. It's like you're bringing me all these things when—hey, hey, look at me. Just you. Okay? All right? You understand? Tell me you understand, Tommy.”

Tommy stared back at him, burning blue eyes squinting with distrust. “Just me,” he repeated, spitting out the words as though Adam had just said something so self-evidently stupid.

"Yes, dumdum." Adam rolled his eyes and moved his hands to Tommy's cheeks, giving a little shake. "Just you."

"Okay."

“Yes!” Adam exclaimed happily. "God! Fuck!"

“I get it.” Tommy nodded and smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Adam sighed in relief and let his body relax. “Good.”

“Just me," he repeated. "I can give you that.”

Tommy stood up and in one languid motion, slipped off his shirt, letting it drop to the floor. Adam might have caught on immediately if the sudden sight of Tommy's mutilated body hadn't distracted him.

There were the scars, of course—the profusion of small cuts that marred his skin in criss-cross patterns and that vile vertical slash down the length of his torso that was as pink and as angry-looking as a fresh incision—but there was something else now too, something that Adam hadn't noticed before: Tommy was slightly hunchbacked, a fact that only became obvious now that he was half-naked in the dull light and Adam could see the muscles on his back. It wasn't grotesque or anything; it was more of a permanent slouch but it was severe enough that it was noticeable. His shoulders slumped forward and his upper back was sloping in a way that made Adam sit up straight instinctively. His head was bowed too—but only slightly, as though he were straining to reach forward with his neck.

That anger surged through Adam again and for a moment, he saw nothing but red and his breaths came quick and shallow.  _What have they done to you?_ he thought. But Tommy didn't look embarrassed or self-conscious about it. He might have already come to terms with it and Adam didn't want to mess with that so he kept his face blank and his mouth shut, even forcing himself to smile a little to hide the violent thoughts seething in his brain.

And so he watched, oblivious to Tommy's intent.

Tommy toed off his sneakers, bent down to carefully peel off his socks, and rolled them into neat little balls, which he stuffed snugly inside the shoes. Then, he placed them on top of the parapet, arranging them such that the toes pointed towards him. Then, frowning, he tilted his head to one side, changed his mind, and turned them the other way. He pursed his lips and used a finger to make sure that they were aligned perfectly parallel to each other.

He turned back to Adam and smiled again, looking pleased with himself. _See? See what a good boy I am?_ he seemed to be saying.

It was only when he began to untie the strings of his pajamas that Adam finally realized what he was doing.

“Stop!” Adam cried. “Stop, stop, stop!”

_Holy shit. Fuuuuuuck._

Tommy’s face fell again, frowning and mouth parting slightly. “I… I don’t understand,” he said, his fingers frozen in a tangle of strings. The cloth had already dipped a little and Adam could see a small patch of silver pubic hair. “You’re gay right? And you said I’m enough and you wanted me. Is it because of...” He looked down at his torso and rubbed a hand all over; he was so fucking skinny and covered in scars, it hurt Adam to look at him. "I'm sorry it's like this." He was breathing hard, suddenly ashamed and in a panic. "I'm sorry it's all—"

“Hey, hey, no. Come on. Don't. This isn’t what I meant,” Adam explained quickly. “Sit down, Tommy. Just sit here.” He patted the space beside him. “Fuck’s sake, man, we’re brothers.”

Tommy paused and frowned. He looked around him for a moment, chest heaving with frustration. But eventually, he sat back down, pressing close to Adam again, his scars scratching skin.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought—”

“Sssh!” Adam said, but not unkindly. “I need a moment to process this.”

They sat in silence for a long while, which gave Adam the time to think. God, what was he gonna do with this guy? Whatever this was, it was obviously not normal sibling behavior. This was something else.

Though, come to think of it, they weren't exactly siblings in the normal sense of the word; they were born to different mothers, after all, and even if they had a common soul-mother or whatever, the exact circumstances of their conception were still such a mystery that it raised all sorts of questions and doubt. Was there something there that expressed itself in the ineffable gravity that they felt towards each other? It wasn't sexual or even familial but it was there, that ineffable, inescapable pull.

And still, even now, their bodies drifted closer to each other, as if to seek warmth even without conscious awareness of doing so. Two complementary pieces finding a fit—or maybe puzzle pieces falling in place. He couldn't really think of a good metaphor right now. Perhaps they were suffering some form of a joint psychological break: a regressive reenactment of their infancy, the parapet’s enclosure as their shared womb space. Freud would probably agree. It was nice. Comforting. Weird but nice.

At some point, Adam realized he was famished and parched. He explained that he had missed dinner so Tommy, only too happy to be of help, produced a half-melted Mars bar and a small bottle of tepid water, all of which he consumed in under a minute. It wasn't nearly enough but that should tide him over until breakfast.

“Thanks,” he said.

Tommy nodded and beamed.

“So, uh…” He didn’t know what to say now, so he looked around and looked for inspiration. “How’s Genosha?”

Christ.

“It’s nice,” Tommy said, looking away. He seemed just as relieved to have found something to talk about. “Plenty of space to run around.”

“Max told me he’s opening the borders. But everything still looks pretty dead to me.”

Tommy side-eyed him. “ _Grandpa_ ’s got plans,” he said, a little coldly. Another blunder. “Lots of people down there. You just don’t see them because they stay inside most of the time but we’re rebuilding. We moved the city underground. Tunnels.”

 _Underground. Huh._ Adam nodded and hummed in response. He didn’t really care too much about it; the idea of Genosha rising again made him sad somehow. For some reason, he expected that to be the beginning of another cycle of tragedy.

“What are we doing up here, Tommy?” he asked, finally.

Tommy didn't reply at once. It took him a while to collect himself and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out, as though he was suddenly gripped by the same aphasia as Eli. He shook his head and took a deep breath, falling quiet for another, longer moment. “I wanted to tell you about me. If, uh, if that’s okay,” he said finally. Absentmindedly, he began to scratch his cheek, picking at the large brown scab covering the flesh that Kate had gouged out.

Adam wanted another shot of whiskey. He already had some idea of what went on in mutant experimentation camps but he didn’t think he was ready for Tommy’s story yet; it didn’t feel like the right time—though perhaps there never really was a right time to relive this kind of horror. He didn't know if he was equipped to deal with this. He wasn't sure he was the right person. Maybe he wasn't—

 _So much uncertainty!_ the thought came to him, a sharp chastising stab in his mind.

So many if's and maybe's but what was certain was that Tommy was here now and he wanted, _needed,_ to talk.

So Adam capped the drink and placed it on the floor. Max had said that Tommy never spoke to anyone about it so if he was willing to open up to Adam, then the least he could do was listen. And he could only do that sober.

“It’s okay,” he said, nodding in encouragement. He couldn't let on that he was terrified that he might say or do the wrong thing. “Go for it, bro. I’m all ears.”

“Okay,” Tommy began, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Okay."

A short pause. Tommy's eyes flickered between green and blue as the memories rushed back at him.

"When I was in t-that place... They kept me in a cell. Tiny thing, almost as small as this.” He touched the stone of the parapet and ran his hand along the surface. “It was a cube. Had to curl up just to sleep but there was a hole in a corner where I could piss and shit. It smelled terrible at first but you get used to it. I—”

He paused, frowned, and shook his head, as though to clear away a thought. He huffed a short chuckle and began talking again.

“Weeks. Sometimes it felt like weeks before they’d let me out. Not that bad. You adapt, I guess. Sometimes, I felt like I wasn't really there anymore, like I was outside my body and just watching. Whenever they came for me, they’d put me inside this metal crate. That part’s my favorite ‘cause those were bigger than my cell so I could stand straight and stretch. Then, they’d roll me up to the labs. Shit, I don’t even know what happened there; they always got me jacked up on drugs next thing I’d know I’d be back in my cell where it was always so cramped. So fucking cramped, man. They never gave me space. Nowhere I could run and build momentum. I think they were afraid of me. Motherfuckers. They were right to be.

“First time Dolly tried to get me out, we got caught at the doors. I fucking fainted when I saw the sky. Too much space above me, I thought I was gonna drop off the skin of the earth. It was just so… big. And you know, with my powers, I could feel how fast everything’s moving. I could feel the fucking _planet_ spinning and fucking flying through space. Shit, if you had any idea. It still makes my head hurt sometimes. And if I try to think about it right now…” he paused, and shivered. “Anyway, when she finally got me out, it was months later. They moved me to another lab so she had to find me all over again and when she took me home, I had to stay in my room for weeks. Couldn’t look at the sky without having a panic attack. It was pathetic.”

His voice was steady and when Adam turned to look, he was picking at a scar on his forearm, face blank, eyes clear, and looking almost bored. It was almost like he was talking about something that had happened to someone else. Memory with emotion. Adam knew the feeling, but in reverse.

He didn’t know what to say or do while he waited for Tommy to say more. Minutes passed and the sky turned purple and then pink as it prepared itself for dawn; beneath them, Genosha was a bruised thing in the dark, an abscess waiting to be drained.

“You got the good life,” Tommy said, finally. "Good parents, rich, and then you were a Young Avenger. How about me? I got the Shepherds, juvie, and I had to kill the only people who took me in and loved me like family. How’s that fair?”

It sounded rhetorical but he stared at Adam, waiting for an answer.

And somehow, Adam found the courage to speak. “It wasn’t fair.” Not quite an answer but it was all he could give.

“S’not your fault, though. I know that. I just… I wish she gave me a better life. Now, all I am is th-that place.”

Adam leaned his forehead on Tommy’s shoulder, hoping that the contact could communicate the swelling warmth in his chest.

“You’re here now, Tommy. I’m here. You’re with me. You’re safe. You’re not in that place anymore.”

“I was thirteen. I was thirteen when they first cut—” Tommy suddenly laughed. A shaky, disbelieving laugh that sounded more amused than anything. “I’ll always be there. Even when I’m here, I’m there.”

He was quiet again and in the gathering light, he looked so pale and wan and vulnerable; it was hard to reconcile this broken boy with the terrifying weapon that had taken on and defeated the Young Avengers.

And all Adam wanted in that moment was to take away the scars and all the bad memories. Years. Years suffering in that terrible place while he flew around in his red cape playing at being a hero. If only he had known then… if only he had rescued Tommy all those years ago... if only his brother hadn’t been alone all that time.

If only, if only, if only.

He reached out a hand and touched his brother’s forehead—there, right there, just between the eyebrows, such a soft spot, smooth, unspoiled, and unscarred. There was a promise he'd made himself and he remembered it now. Slowly, he whispered the words. He enunciated his syllables carefully, giving Tommy a meaningful look so that he knew what Adam was doing; the last part had to be in English, in a language that the object of the spell would understand.

“…I gather the wounds of memory and cast them to the river Lethe.”

Tommy didn’t flinch or pull away. His eyes didn't flicker green to dispel the spell either but before Adam could reach inside his broken mind and release the magic, he asked, “You know what I did after I got out?”

Adam paused. Just a flick of his thumb and Tommy would forget. Healed and made whole. Just a twitch. But Adam couldn’t do it. Not yet. The story wasn’t over yet.

“No. What?”

“After I could go out without feeling like the planet will fling me off?”

“No. What did you do?”

“I killed them all.”

Adam’s eyes grew soft as he released an inaudible sigh.

“Every last son of a bitch from th-that place. Even the fucking janitor. Everyone who _knew._ Everyone who knew what they were doing to me and stood by and did nothing. I hunted them all even the—” He paused and his eyes flared wide with rage. “Well, not all. That Talman woman got away.”

His face twisted and there was a sudden flash of green. Without breaking eye contact with Adam, he flung a clawed hand to his side. There was a distant explosion somewhere down in the city and having found release, he shuddered and closed his eyes for a long moment.

“She got away,” he said, tilting his face up and glaring at something behind Adam. “But the rest of them… well.”

He didn't look conflicted about it. If anything, he looked proud of himself and he had a daring glint in his eye that seemed to challenge Adam.

 _He thinks I disapprove_ , Adam thought. He wanted to say that he understood why Tommy did what he did, that he might have done the same thing had he been in that place. He might have even done worse. He opened his mouth to say something but Tommy immediately went on the offensive and talked over him.

“I killed them all," he said. "And I made it last.”

Adam leaned forward so he could look straight into his brother’s eyes. “Good,” he said.

Whatever Tommy had expected him to say, it was certainly not that. “That's not how I remember you,” Tommy said, stunned, his anger suddenly melting away.

“Too bad. This is the me you’ve got.”

Slowly, as though uncertain of how to behave with each other, they smiled and began to laugh.

“Shit, we are so fucking damaged,” Adam said, wiping the tears from his face. They caught each other’s eyes and laughed again; with his fingers still on Tommy’s forehead, it was a little awkward. “Are we bad people?”

“Fuck, no!”

“We’re just as bad as them.”

“You think so?” Tommy said, frowning. “They did it because they were bored. Scientific curiosity or some shit. I did it for justice.”

“You mean vengeance.”

“You say tomato...” He shrugged. “I needed to find peace.”

Adam shook his head slowly. “So did you?” The spell strained against his hold, wanting to be cast. “Find peace?”

Tommy stared at him with crushing gravity, blue eyes blazing with the force of magic and voice brimming with sound and fury. “Yes,” he said resolutely. “Yes, I did.”

“Okay.” Adam pressed his fingers firmly against Tommy’s skin. He felt the stir of magic deep in his belly, rousing to his call.

“So don’t take that away from me, baby brother,” Tommy said, holding his gaze. “Please.”

 _Ah_ , Adam thought.  _So that's what that's about._

He smiled again and with a sigh, he withdrew his hand. It was Tommy’s choice, after all; he had no right. He felt the magic snap back with a jarring recoil, angry and unspent, like an overstretched spring suddenly released. It shook his bones and cramped his muscles and it took a few minutes for the discomfort to pass.

“Hey, Tommy,” he said softly, settling back in his seat. He cast a glance at the distant horizon, where thin feathery clouds were streaked purple and orange, heralding dawn. “I think you should see someone.”

“What, like a shrink? Why?” Tommy asked, voice hard and suddenly defensive. “You think I’m crazy? That I’m a socio—”

“No, no. I just—” Adam paused. He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses, and resettled them on his nose. “You’ve been through so much and I want to help you. But I can’t. I want so hard to just take everything away and make it better but I don’t know how to do that.”

"Maybe you don't have to. Maybe it's not your job. Maybe you don't get to fix me." Tommy sounded agitated, speaking in low tones through gritted teeth. "Maybe you should just leave it alone."

Adam turned to his side and gave him a soft look. "Tommy..."

Tommy glared at him for a while and said in an even voice:

“I’m not crazy.”

“I know you’re not. But I think you need help. If you want to heal, you should get help.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and looked away. “Maybe I don’t want to heal,” he said. “Maybe I wanna stay angry and keep punching people in the face. Ever thought about that, huh?”

“Do it for me,” Adam said. “Please?"

"Come on. Don't be sappy."

"For your baby brother?”

That made Tommy roll his eyes. But a second later and a pink tongue darted out and licked his upper lip and he shoved Adam’s shoulder playfully. “Ass.”

Adam grinned back as he studied him. Tommy was not the brother that he had imagined; he was unpredictable and touch-starved and more than a little broken but he was also soft and heroic and unrepentantly _good_. Adam had come up with him to the highest point of this castle— _their_ castle, he supposed—out of pity and duty but now he felt nothing but love and pride burning in his chest.

“No, but seriously. Come on. Do it for me.”

“Thanks but I’ll do it for myself,” Tommy said. “And for your information, I’m already seeing someone.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good.”

“Yeah. Now, would you get off my dick and fuck off?”

“That’s gross, Tommy.”

They were quiet after that. Adam let his thoughts drift away from him, consciously turning away from ruminations of might-have-been’s and could-have-been’s; instead, he looked to the future, where there was hope and the potential of what could be.

 

“Almost forgot,” Tommy mumbled, drawing Adam from the muck of his thoughts. He blinked a few times and yawned. “Brought you a gift.”

 _Another one?_ Adam thought. "Not a dead bird, I hope?"

"Ha-ha." Tommy rolled his eyes—a sight which Adam was starting to enjoy seeing. "I know what you really want. And I'll help you get him back."

 _Teddy._ Adam thought. And the sound of the name in his head was enough to pull him back down.

Tommy unzipped his fanny pack and took out a small tattered-looking book roughly the size of a hand.

“What is it?” Adam asked as he pulled back the rubber band that kept the pages closed.

“Dream journal. Shrink told me to keep one.”

“Okay. Um, thanks?” The fuck? 

Tommy nodded and didn’t explain further, as though the connection was obvious. He turned to look at Adam and watched him expectantly.

So Adam leafed through the pages, carefully as if they were as fragile as the mind that had produced them. Most of the entries were only a couple of sentences long, all penned in a messy, clumsy scribble: nonsense dream things like “Had to talk to grandpa but the rabbit won’t let me” and dark emanations of a traumatized psyche like “Was back _there_ —” the ‘there’ written over a few times “—but the cell was smaller and I had to curl in a ball. Woke up on the floor, head between my knees.”

Sometimes, there were accompanying sketches: flowers, miscellaneous household objects, a road that stretched into the distance ( _That must have been a good dream_ , Adam thought, _Tommy could have run there as much as he wanted._ ), even a detailed illustration of one of the gnarled Dama de Noche near Le Jardin.

There was a page filled with the drawing of a man in a grand sweeping robe, his body turned away as he walked further into the page. He was swathed in shadows but he was looking over his shoulder, gazing boldly out of the page with a cocky smile and a knowing spark in his eye. _I have a secret_ , the mage seemed to say; his hand gripped rolled up piece of paper, the numbers to a partial equation of a spell just barely legible. Adam peered closer at the mage and saw that it was his own face staring back.

He turned the pages and there were more drawings of him, most in imagined dreamscapes but some clearly from memory. There was one of him sitting on the windowsill of his Madripoor apartment, caught behind an updraft of petals, some close-ups of his face or his fingers bent in various Forms, and one of him having dinner with Ruixian in a café. He remembered that night and the argument they had over which brand of dog food to get for Dante and Oscar and the various merits and demerits of their proposals. In the end, she'd won that one handily.

In some of these drawings, he was in his old Asgardian uniform, ridiculous coronet and wooden staff and all—there was even a detailed sketch of him in flight, which made his heart hurt a little so he quickly turned the page.

He found Dolly and Sutan and Jacob, and then Kate and Cassie and Eli and two boys he didn’t recognize: one with a stoic face and dark hair, vaguely resembling Nate, and the other with light hair and a beatific face, a row of earrings climbing up the tender curl of his ear.

Adam didn’t want to look at that one for too long so kept leafing through the pages until the words and pictures ran out. He was about to close the book when Tommy spoke, eyes closed: 

“Turn to the last page. Right at the back.”

Adam did and saw numbers. Not just numbers but symbols too, mathematical operations and equations scratched out haphazardly on the paper. He was a little tired and his eyes made it hard to focus.

“Tommy.” He frowned, a little exasperated. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “What’s all this?”

“Don’t know. I see them my head and I write them down. Keep the book.”

Numbers and equations: that’s all they were. Adam tried to make sense of it all and the pattern jumped at him immediately.

He gasped, eyes wide as he quickly scanned what he held in his hands. “This is a spell,” he said in an awed voice. “Tommy, how did you—?”

“Just read.”

And so Adam read and if he could, he might have also jumped to his feet and paced.

It was like a livewire had suddenly touched his brain and all neurons were firing at once. The functions and transforms ran hot and quick in his head, his lips moving rapidly as he mentally worked out the mathematics and mapped out the spell’s structure. The vectors traced three-dimensional spatial constructs, which intertwined at multiple points like a protein spontaneously seeking its quaternary structure. Each point was then extruded into a spatial fourth-dimension by time-dependent functions unique for each point. Overall, it gave the impression of a churning blob.

And yet there was more. The superstructure folded into itself in the manner of a tesseract and digressed into a spatial sub-dimension, where it then folded deeper into another sub-dimension, and another, and another, converging through an infinite recursion.

Adam’s brain, racing now on sheer instinct, kept at the calculations until the variables multiplied out of control and the patterns diverged and all progress he had made scattered and fell apart.

He frowned. That wasn’t supposed to happen; his mind had been strenuously trained to handle this kind of work. So he started from the beginning and redid the analysis, only to lose control of the mathematics again.

 _Memory magic,_ Adam thought. There was a reason that shit was forbidden. The spell was protecting itself, attacking the reader and refusing to be seen. _Fuck. The spell is alive._ He had never seen anything like it.

Thwarted and head hurting, Adam closed the book and pocketed it. He didn't really understand what it was for yet but he knew that buried somewhere inside that tangle of symbols and numbers was the key to Teddy.

“Tommy,” he said quietly. He might have hugged him but he wasn't sure if that was acceptable. “This is... This is amazing."

Tommy gave him a weak smile. "Nailed it."

"Thanks. I-I’ll work on this.”

Tommy hummed and yawned. “How’s your leg, baby brother?”

“Pretty bad,” Adam said, glancing at the injured limb. “But I’ll walk... sort of.”

Tommy reached over and tried to poke it but Adam slapped his hand away.

“We’ll get you a cane,” Tommy mumbled sleepily. “Bet you’d like that.”

“I would, actually.”

“One of those stupid wooden staff things like you used to have. This one can have like a pointy end and a large blue orb for a handle.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. But maybe red, so it can match my cape. Have you seen my very cool cape?”

“I’ve seen the cape. It’s not that cool.”

“Fuck you. It’s a cool cape,” Adam insisted.

“Oh, oh,” Tommy said, trying for excitement but exhausted as he was, it came out as a yawn. “And then shit maybe the orb thing can glow.”

“It’s like you’re in my head.”

They laughed and talked a little more. Later, they played barefooted footsies, to which Adam responded only half-heartedly, and once they tired of that too, they huddled closer and in silence watched the stars vanish from the bruising sky.

 

Tommy was asleep. His head rested on Adam’s shoulder and he was making soft snoring sounds.

 _I’ve got you_ , Adam thought, turning his head to look. _No one will ever hurt you again._

Slowly, so as not to wake him, Adam stretched his right arm over Tommy’s chest, bent it back at the elbow, and sank his fingers in the silver hair.

It was soft and silky, he noted, perhaps the only part of Tommy that remained soft. He cast a simple spell over their bodies to filter out the sun’s glare—nothing too dangerous or costly, just a little enchantment to diffract the more perilous wavelengths on the shorter side of the spectrum—and stared bravely at the rosy dawn as it spilled over the horizon. He played with his brother’s hair and sang out a soft melody, the same incomplete tune that Tommy had sung for him when he laid dying in the Seven’s cave.

When he too started to feel drowsy, he rested his head against his brother’s and closed his eyes.

They had plenty of things left to do… wounds to mend, memories to make, so many lost years to make up for. But they had taken the first step and that was a good start—at least it _felt_ like a good start. And maybe that was enough. To simply  _try_. 

They would have the rest of their lives to figure out everything else. Together. So for now, while they still had time, they slept.

And hundreds of feet below them, under the soft light of a pink sun, the scarred city of Genosha stirred and roused itself, beaten, bloodied, and broken but defiantly alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, slow chapter but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!  
> Sitting for the mcat in August so I'm taking a break from writing for a while. Wish me luck!


	11. A Girl without a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam continues his recovery and some headway is made with Eli.  
> A gift is given and a kiss is stolen; it isn't goodbye if it's just for a while, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Exam over!  
> This was gong to be part of a longer chapter but I decided to post it first to make up for the long hiatus. Haven't had time to really edit it so I might change it a bit at a later date. Hope you guys like it! :D

The pain in his leg came and went and came again.

It was manageable at first. A dull, persistent tenderness that afflicted the muscles in the backdrop of everyday life—just white noise, really, the sort of discomfort that he'd come to accept as a permanent fixture of his body and his fair share of the tragedy that had befallen the First Seven.

What right had he to a painless existence anyway, when the lines of the Seven had been decimated to the brink of extinction? Compared to that, how could he have the audacity to complain of poor eyesight and a little ache in one leg?

 _I deserve this_ , he kept telling himself, with some measure of satisfaction.

A part of him—the self-loathing, self-flagellating part—imagined it was retribution for his cowardice. All those years hiding and running away from his responsibilities to the Supremacy... A decade, almost! He had to pay for it. And that part of him rejoiced in that imagined restoration of justice in the universe; after all, Adam Thorne had done bad and therefore Adam Thorne must be punished.

And so, he even learned to relish that earned suffering—at least until the attacks started.

 

He had been in bed the first time it happened. It wasn't so much the agony that shocked him but the suddenness of it. There was no preamble, no buildup; one moment he was sleeping in bed and the next, he was screaming and thrashing. He woke up, wide-eyed and shrieking, and the pain was so immense he thought someone had taken a drill to his leg.

Tommy, who had been startled awake, leaped quickly to his feet and summarily concluded that Adam was under attack. He bounced around the room, throwing open cabinets and upending furniture to look for an intruder, and then ran off, barely suppressing himself that the wooden floor tore up as he went. He must have searched the castle—maybe even the city—and yet nothing. He returned to Adam's room and with bare hands, ripped open the walls and the upholstery. He kept talking to Adam— _You're okay, baby brother, you're okay—_ his voice calm and tight, all the while searching under floorboards and inside walls and upholstery for a hex or a fetish or anything remotely suspicious.

When that proved futile too, a flummoxed and irritated Ted was summoned. He walked Adam through another one of his breathing exercises and even tried to work his Inhuman powers to convince him that the pain was all in his head. And to that, Adam shrieked that _all_ pain was technically in the head.

So a doctor was called and then another and another until finally, a disheveled, tight-lipped Ruixian arrived. Very calmly, she banished the gathering crowd and once the room was cleared, she touched the small of Adam's back and severed the connection between his legs and his spinal cord.

And finally, there was nothing. Blissful, painless, nothing. She had crippled him and he wept in gratitude. 

He would remember very little of what happened that night, only the warmth of her arms, the repetitive lull of her voice, and the sour stink of his own sweat. And he didn't sleep again; instead, he clutched her skirt against his face and sobbed into the coarse fabric, shivering even as he continued to sweat.

For a while she was stiff and quiet, humming as she stroke his hair and sent exploratory electric fields rippling through his body. He drifted in and out of something that wasn't quite sleep, wasn't quite waking, until later—hours... minutes... he couldn't tell—he realized that her skin was crackling and glowing a fierce silver-white and that she was yelling at Tommy. 

Whatever it was they were fighting over, he would never find out. She must have won though because come daylight, she reconnected the nerves and Tommy was gone.

Adam wouldn't see him again for a week.

 

It happened again the next day, while he was in the shower. And then a few days after that. And then again, after another week.

The cold triggered it. The heat triggered it. And so did any sudden movement or prolonged immobility—or perhaps there was no trigger at all but the whim of a sadistic universe. 

It would strike him in a blitz, descending in full force without warning, and it would conclude just as abruptly—all pain mercifully vanished in a heartbeat. It was intense, originating from his leg and rippling through his skeleton until he was either shaking or catatonic on the floor, flat as a board.

“Muscular necrosis,” Ruixian had pronounced, just before admitting that her powers couldn't permanently override the magical forces that kept the injury in place. Even her trick of cutting off the lower limbs had only worked that first time. The second time she tried it, the pain, impossibly, intensified instead to the point that he was howling and convulsing; it was as though the magic was adapting to ensure that the price stuck—and punishing him for trying to cheat it off its due.

There wasn’t much he could do about it; they tried antidepressants, physiotherapy, meditation, and, when he got desperate enough, Ted's hypnotherapy. They gave some reprieve to the soreness that chronically plagued the leg but the acute attacks were as agonizing as ever. And always they left him in a sweating, shivering heap on the floor, either screaming his lungs out or too breathless and stunned to even croak out a sob.

 

“You think I’ll ever get used to this?” he asked Ruixian once, gasping, after a particularly vicious episode.

She shrugged and bit her lip, looking at him head to toe as if to study him again. “Not sure,” she said. She picked up his glasses from the floor and replaced them on his nose. “Nociceptors,” she explained, “ _p_ _ain_ receptors... they don’t adapt to prolonged stimulation but in theory, the brain could develop endurance to the signals it receives. But with magic in the mix… who knows? Maybe you're _supposed_ to suffer, eh?”

" _Eh_? What are you, Canadian now? You been hanging out with Ted?"

"He's _'_ _s_ _trayan_ , ya wanker," she said. A bad attempt at levity. Wincing, she shifted her gaze to Eli, who was attempting the same assisted walk with a neighboring set of parallel bars—though much faster and with fewer incidents.

"I suppose suffering's the point," Adam conceded. 

Defeated, he released a long exhale and straightened up. He took a small step with his braced leg and found his muscles jellied and shaking. The rest of him hurt too, though not as much. He'd gone down too fast and he'd broken his fall by hooking his arms over the bars; judging from the pain now radiating from his ribs and armpits, he's sure he'd be sporting a couple of new bruises soon enough.

"If it makes you feel better, most people with this sort of injury only manage a _sliiiiiiightly_ raised leg after a few weeks of recovery," Ruixian said. " _You're_ already walking."

Adam nodded, not particularly cheered by the fact. " _Hobbling_ ," he said. "In a leg brace. And not everyone has a Ruixian to tell their bodies to behave."

"True."

"So bite me."

She frowned at him, unable to tell if he was being genuinely nasty.

A few paces ahead, Eli was already finishing with his lap. He turned to Adam with a smug smile and sat down clumsily in one of the plastic chairs that Ruixian had placed at the end of the bars.

“I tried removing the necrosed tissues,” Ruixian continued. “But every time I regenerated them, the new cells just died again.”

“Have you tried _not_ restoring the tissue after excision?”

“Oh! Actually, that might—” she paused and frowned already wrestling with the logistics and prognosis of the proposed approach. Meanwhile, Adam went on with his journey to the end of the bars.

“No,” she finally said, a few minutes later. “With magic in the equation, probably not a great idea. If we remove the afflicted area, could the necrosis just move to the surrounding tissues? Is that a possibility?"

Adam considered it for a moment, nodded, frowned, and then shrugged.

"Right. Then we'd end up amputating the whole leg. Or the injury might just migrate to some other limb entirely. Is that something that could happen?”

Adam almost snorted _._

“Yeah. You’re right,” he said. Cheating magic off its due? What was he thinking? “Just leave it alone then. I guess that means I’ll be carrying dead muscle for the rest of my life. Does this make me part-zombie?" He grinned at her in hopes of dispelling the dejected look on her face. But it was a bad joke and she pitied him too much to find any humor in it. "But thanks, Ray," he added, clearing his throat and letting his grin soften to a smile . "For everything. I know you're doing your best.”

“Not enough!" she said, her face crumpling a little. "You’ll be in pain for the rest of your life, Adam," she added. And for the first time in weeks, her voice was soft to him.

"Well..." This time, he was ready: he took out a bottle of Vicodin from his pocket and popped a couple of tablets in his mouth. “As long as the important bits still work,” he said, with an extravagant flourish of his hand. He winked at her and swallowed the tablets dry. His second attempt at a smile felt even weaker and more pathetic than the first but she returned it. 

“I’m…” Eli interjected, interrupting whatever it was she was about to say. “I’m…” His face scrunched up as he searched for the word.

“I’ve been working on his aphasia,” Ruixian said, appraising the broken man with a mixed look of pride and frustration. “He's got his nouns back and some of the more basic verbs. But the other stuff’s trickier. Especially the pronouns. First person’s fine, but he’s still having problems with the idea that different things could be represented by the same pronoun. How could the same words ‘he’ or ‘she’ or ‘they’ refer to a _bazillion_ other people? How could everyone talking to him be a ‘you’, when it’s obviously a different person every time? Oh and my favorite? How could Cassie be a ‘you’ right now and a ‘she’ when she leaves the room? Am I trying to confuse him? Lying to him? I’m not a psycholinguist, Adam, even my amazing brain can’t explain these things.”

Adam imagined her frustrated—her eyes widening as her small face turned red and her lips pressed to a tight line—and chuckled at the thought. “You gotta try, Ray,” he said, slipping his pill bottle back in his pants.

“I _._ Am. Doing. My. Fucking. Best.” she said, loud enough to startle Eli. “I’m trying very _very_ hard,” she hissed.

“Can’t you just—” he wriggled his fingers vaguely “—you know?”

She made a face at him. “Hey, here's a thought: why don’t you try rewiring a brain, if it’s so easy, huh? And—” she wriggled her fingers back at him, way too close to his face. “—is more your thing, yeah?”

“Okay _lah_ , okay _lah_ ,” he replied with a roll of his eyes, exaggerating the stress on the borrowed words. He swiped her hand away

“Stop,” she said harshly, lifting a finger between them. “Just… don’t. It’s terrible.”

"I never did get the  _lah'_ s and the  _leh'_ s."

" _A_ _ng moh's_  never do."

Adam bit his lip and grinned, rising to the bait. "Really _meh_?" he said, adopting the nasal drawl. "You _ah_... Don't anyhow say one, you! I tell you _ah_ , this  _ang moh_ don't play play with languages _hor._ "

Ruixian stared at him, stunned to a curious blend of surprise and disgust. "Wow," she said, wincing. "You're so awkward and lame and embarrassing but that's actually..."

"Pretty good right?"

"Yeah. Sounds almost authentic. Almost offensive, actually."

Adam grinned again. "Really?"

" _Almost_ , though."

Adam pumped a fist in the air. "Nailed it."

Just then, Eli made a loud exasperated sound and glared at them.

“He looks annoyed,” Adam remarked.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t you be if you had something to say but didn’t know how to say it?”

“Yeah. Guess so. But this is good.”

"Wow." Ruixian frowned. “Good that he can’t talk?”

“Hah! He did have a mouth on him.”

He couldn’t help but grin. He remembered the old days, all those years ago: memories of Eli and Kate sniping at each other, just minutes before a mission. He never could remember who'd won—nor could he remember ever really caring—but he remembered the feeling of vicarious glee just from watching them bicker. He’d rolled his eyes and made fun of them and made flapping gestures with his hands. And even though it wasn't all that funny, someone would always laugh… someone there… with him… though he couldn’t remember that now either.

“No, I meant it’s good that he’s annoyed,” he said, shaking off the creeping tendrils of memory. “If you knew him, you’d understand. Being annoyed’s like his default mood or something. An irritated Eli is a true Eli. ”

“God. You’re such a dick.”

“Hey, I'm just being real here. He  came out of the box that way," Adam said, smiling with mischief. "You should bring in Nate and see what happens. Maybe that will restore the factory settings.” 

Eli made that loud, outraged sound again. “F-f…” he clenched his hands into fists as he struggled to reach for the word. “Fu-fuck you, Adam.” And up went the middle fingers.

“Uncanny,” Adam said dryly. The profanity actually impressed him but he was enjoying himself too much to let Eli know. “He’s just as I remember him.”

"Making fun of someone with a disability? That's a new low for you," Ruixian said. 

Adam pointed at his braced leg. "I think this means we're in an in-group now," he said, feeling a little guilty even though she hadn't meant to be cruel. "I'm sorry I can't get him to say anything more than that. I'm sure you two talk about more substantial things."

"That was actually his first complete sentence,” she muttered. 

"Yeah, no, I don't think he'd be discussing the economy anytime soon."

“You're a fucking asshole." She turned to Eli and said, in a voice surprisingly gentler than what Adam would expect from a mutant speaking to an MGH-user, “It's all right, Eli. Point. Sign. Use your hands.”

Eli rolled his eyes at her and groaned. Still, he tapped his stomach with the flat of his hand and made circular motions for emphasis. “Pain,” he said, stretching out the word.

“Is he okay?” Adam asked, all good humor suddenly vanished. “Is he hurt? Go check on him, Ray.”

Ruixian did. She laid a hand on Eli’s forehead and closed her eyes.

“No,” she concluded, after a long minute. “Not hurt. Just… hungry. Good. That’s good” Her other hand drifted to his upper arm and squeezed. “You’re finally regaining muscle, Eli.”

“Thank…” Eli frowned, lost again now. “Thank y-you?”

“Yes! That’s right. It’s ‘you’, that's the right pronoun! Jesus. Oh god, I'm so happy," she said, sounding relieved and exhausted at the same time. Sighing, she let her eyes close for a second and brought her hands to cover her face. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said quietly. "Not on my own." 

Adam nodded weakly. “I know. I’m sorry for pushing you so much. It's just... Eli'san old friend.”

"I understand. Really, I do."

"And I don't like seeing him like this. Kate and me and the rest of the Young Avengers... this was our fault too. We should have seen it. We could have saved him."

"From himself? People make their own choices, Adam," she murmured, letting her hands drop to her sides. "He didn't have to take the MGH."

"I know it's just..."

"Yeah. I understand." She gave him a brief smile. “And, um, there _is_ something that might help.”

“Thank you, Ray. For doing this. Whatever it is, Max can get it for you."

“Are you kidding? Have you seen him lately? He can't manage a trip around the world. Doubt, he'll even survive a trip down the stairs. You know what, you and Max and that psychotic brother of yours—"

"Hey," Adam said in warning.

Ruixian raised her hands diplomatically. "All I'm saying is I can see the family resemblance. Twigs, all of you."

"Thank you. Now, please, whatever it is you need, just hand it off to one of my grandfather's lackeys and they'll get it done. Have I mentioned that Magneto is my grandpa? He's a supervillain, you know?"

Ruixian gave his earlobe a playful flick. "Actually, you know I—” She stopped herself and huffed out a breath. “Actually, I think it’s better if I go myself.”

His arms were beginning to burn from the strain of propping himself up between the bars. Worse still, he was beginning to reek. He looked down at his feet and, with a grunt, resumed the exercise. Another step. Lift the foot, place it on the ground. Repeat with other foot to move forward. Left foot, right foot. Had it always been so difficult? His legs felt foreign to him and every movement was deliberate, as if he'd lost the skill and he were learning to walk all over again.

“Don’t be silly,” he said absently, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the next. He hadn’t even noticed the forced casualness in her tone. “Too dangerous. We’ll send one of Magneto’s minions. I'd ask Tommy but you know, I think he sort of hates you."

Ruixian snorted, a sound that succinctly communicated how she felt about Tommy's disapproval of her.

"You two should talk. Really. Jealousy is not a good color on you. I really think you'll get along with him if you just get to—”

“You're not listening,” she said and the sudden hardness to her voice broke his focus. “I _want_ to go. God! You have no idea! These past few months have been crazy and I… I need some time away.”

Adam looked up from his feet and frowned at her. “Look, Ray, I know Genosha’s no Madripoor and I’m antsy to leave too but given our present predicaments…” He gestured at his legs. “We’re not particularly mobile at the moment.”

But she was still shaking her head.

“I want to go alone,” she said firmly.

_Oh._

"I see," Adam said, holding her gaze. "So when you said you needed some time away..." 

She stared back at him, looking a little guilty.

 _You meant_ _away from_ me.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said again, half-heartedly.

With a smile, she rolled her eyes. “Adam. Come on. You know I can take care of myself.”

Another step. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Let the world beware." He watched his feet again, just to distract himself from the conversation. “When do you leave?”

“Soon.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Hawkeye sent me some leads. Will take a while to check ‘em all out. Maybe a few months? Just weeks if I’m lucky.”

"You're going to leave Eli?" He tried again, trying not to sound too desperate, but he already knew how unconvincing it was the moment it left his lips.  _You're going to leave_ me _?_   he'd meant to say but didn't. And that actually had a hope of working if he said it in the right tone with the right face.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He had no right to put that on her. He wouldn't use her feelings against her like that. 

"I guess I am," she said, nonchalantly shrugging one shoulder. "I've done everything I can for Eli. If anything's going to fix him, it's this."

He stared at her for a long moment and tried to find the words. _This must be how Eli feels_ , he thought. _No, of course not. Shit. I'm an asshole._

"You have your brother now," Ruixian said quietly, easily reading his thoughts. "You don't need me here anymore."

 _You're wrong_ , he wanted to say. _I do need you here and more importantly, I_ want _you here._

It must have shown on his face because her lips twitched and her eyes softened.

He cleared his throat and took another step. "This thing that you're looking for," he said, wincing as he messed up the heel placement. "Share."

"You all right?" she asked, fingers already reaching forward.

Adam shook his head and waved her away. "Tell me what you're looking for."

She let out a short laugh. "You won't believe this... but it's confidential."

"Are you kidding?" He let his face go slack and raised an eyebrow.

"Right?!" She grinned, her shoulders climbing to her ears in excitement. "I know! Isn't this amazing? Me? On a mission. Who'da thunk?"

Adam didn't really relish the idea but he nodded anyway. “We’re never gonna get to Glasgow, are we?” he said, looking up at her with a small smile.

Her face softened and a conflicted look fleeted over her face. “You know... I think I never told you this... but I never really wanted Glasgow.”

“What? Shut up! We planned everything together! In fact, if I remember, _you_ chose Glasgow!”

She sauntered back to him and helped him with the last few steps.

“I never wanted Glasgow, Adam,” she said again, when they’d reached the end of the bars. "That was all you. You know what I mean."

“Yeah... I do,” he said and, after a brief pause, added, “I’ll miss you.”

“I know,” she muttered, reaching for his face. She pushed his glasses up his nose and flicked his forehead. “I’ll miss you too, magic boy.”

They stood there, staring awkwardly at each other until Eli groaned and tugged at their sleeves.

 

She left early the next day, with a backpack, a Glock, and a phone that Nate had made for her.

The weather was good: clear skies, warm, no sandstorms. So they came down early, checked out the airport (one of the very few functional infrastructures in Genosha), and watched the men as they cleared out the runway and pulled out her plane from the hangar. 

It was small, black, and matte—as non-descript as one could design a plane—and Max had assured Adam that it was fitted with jammers, infrared sinks, and all other sorts of cloaking tech that should keep her off the radar.

"Once that ship leaves Genoshan airspace, even  _we_ wouldn't be able to find her,” Max had said, which Adam did not find reassuring at all.

Still, despite his grandfather's grumbling concession to install a tracker and Ruixian's promise that she would send him a text every day, he couldn’t help the apprehension curling in the pit of his stomach.

 _You’re just a kid_ , he thought as he sat down beside her on the tarmac. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at her briefly.  _Just a stupid little kid with too much power in her hands._

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly. "I don't think you ever really told me."

She turned to him, taken aback. "What?" she said. "You're asking me this now? Is this because I'm leaving? Don't worry. I've had the talk and in Singapore, the age of consent is—"

“Okay, okay. God. Never mind. Here,” he said, handing her a box. It was the best he could do to keep her protected.  “Don’t open it until you’re on board.”

Ruixian ran a hand over the paper wrapping and raised an eyebrow. “A Faraday cage?”

“Sort of. The spell version just to keep you from peeking. I didn’t know how much your powers have grown." He looked at the broken leg stretched out in front of him. "So... yeah.”

A curious fleeting look passed over her face. He thought she'd reprimand him for using magic for something so trifling but instead, she smiled, looking genuinely grateful. “Thanks. So what is it?”

Adam shrugged and twisted his lips. “Nothing. Just thought I'd get you something nice. Don't overthink it.”

“I wanna know now. Tell me.”

“Kinda defeats the point of the wrapper and the cage. It's supposed to be a surprise. Let me have my secrets, woman.”

It was kind of a lie; he didn't care too much about surprises but since acceptance of the gift was a crucial component of the spell, this was the only way he could be sure that the whole thing worked.

“Oh fuck, is it my birthday?” She held the box to her ear and gave it a shake.

“I don’t know. You never told me.”

“Oh. Right. I didn't, did I?”

Adam glanced back at the runway and saw that the plane was in position now. One of the men flashed him a thumbs-up and pulled a lever from the ship's belly. Without so much as a hiss or a  _click_ , a small hatch swung open and a metal ladder rolled down.

 _Huh._ Adam thought.  _Old design._

"I guess it's time," he said, feeling a little numb for some reason.

Ruixian looked at the ship and nodded. "Yeah." With a grunt, she pushed herself off the ground and rose to her feet. "I'll see you," she said, giving him an awkward salute.

Holding the box under one arm, she adjusted the strap of her backpack so that it pressed tight against her back. It dwarfed her, rising over her head by a good couple of feet. And even as he looked up at her, Adam didn't think she'd ever looked smaller than she did right now.

“Yeah," he said. "Good luck, Hacker.” 

“Thanks, Asgardian." She paused and bit her lip, reluctant to leave. It was strange... to have her tower over him like this. To have her shadow fall over his face in a comfortable shade. "I have to rethink that codename. Might go back to Synapse.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. I’m still not feeling it.” 

“It takes time for some people. Maybe you’ll find it out there.”

_That and everything else that you can't find here._

"Yeah. Maybe."

She studied him for a while and Adam could almost feel her memorizing his face, his body, his form, and to his surprise, he didn’t mind at all; he only wished that he didn’t look so broken right now. She deserved so much more than that.

“Yeah. Goodbye, Adam,” she said when she'd finally run out of excuses to linger. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Bye, Ray. Come back soon.”

She bent down and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Bye,” she muttered, burning a fierce red as she turned and walked away.

It was too bad; she really was pretty. And prettiness was only the least of her qualities. She was also smart and brave and kind. Full of heart and hope and all that Adam Thorne had thrown away to create himself.

He watched her climb into the ship, grinning and waving back when she turned to look at him one last time. That image of her receding reminded him of the night they'd spent at the Sanctuaire and he'd felt the same empty feeling of being left behind... the feeling that came when he'd realized that the girl he knew had left him a long time ago.

Or perhaps the girl he thought she was was just an idea he'd constructed in the privacy of his broken mind. He had been a hero once, before he'd become Adam Thorne, and maybe he'd needed someone weak and innocent to protect. So in his mind, Ruixian was weak and innocent. And now, watching her climb up the ladder with her gear and her guns, the truth was suddenly made clear that she had always been powerful and brave; she'd never needed him at all and they were just both too stupid to realize that. Perhaps it was _he_ who needed _her._

And the girl that Adam thought she was? That girl never existed.

The ladder retracted and the hatch closed. With a long exhale, Adam lifted his arms and gave her his final gift.

He began weaving the Forms, his fingers stiff with disuse and protesting against the sudden flexibility he required. Then his arms moved in wide circles, even as his hands continued with the casting, layering Form upon Form to imbue a strength that would make the spell nigh unbreakable. His leg throbbed at the exertion but he pushed through it. It was only a small spell, really. Property Transference. Minor arcana. It took less than a minute to cast it in its most potent, most ironclad variation. Now all that was needed was for her to look at what’s inside the box, and the spell would complete itself. His gift would be hers, completely and irrevocably.

With a sudden groaning of its engines, the ship lifted a few feet off the ground and accelerated forward, kicking up dust clouds in its wake. 

Adam squeezed his eyes shut and waited until the plane was far enough down the runway before opening them again. “Keep her safe,” he whispered, hoping that hope and magic would be enough. "Keep her safe and bring her back to me."

He waited for a blossom of heat in his chest... a twitch in his head... something to say that he'd been heard. But there was no response. No, of course not. It had been gifted and so it was no longer his.

He smiled, knowing that the spell had taken hold.

The black ship climbed the cloudless sky in a gentle slope, growing smaller and smaller against the pale blue. Adam stayed, shielding his eyes against the morning glare and squinting until Ruixian's ship was just a dot in the sky.

He left, smiling to himself, though if he had known it was the last time he’d ever see her, he might have stayed a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the amazing new [ cover art ](http://captainkittysparrow.tumblr.com/post/147717919676/reality-warper-inspiration-once-upon-a-dream) by the lovely [ captainkittysparrow](http://captainkittysparrow.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always, comments, good and bad, are all welcome and appreciated! You can send it to me on [ Tumblr ](http://kleos-aphthit0n.tumblr.com/) too! 
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading! :)


	12. Genoshans

“Put the phone down, Teddy,” Adam said for what must have been the third time. “Now, pay attention.” He held the red string up between his pinky and thumb and, without the use of his other hand, made two loops and a knot around the ring finger. “The string remembers the Forms that you make with your fingers.”

Cassie gasped, with such force of enthusiasm that his eye twitched with annoyance. “Hey, thaaaaaat’s pretty neat!” she exclaimed. “Right, Teddy?”

With an expert roll of his eyes, the boy paused the game on Adam's phone ( _Candy Crush,_ of all things) and clicked his tongue. “That’s obvious, Mister Adam.” He took Adam's hand in his palms and regarded it critically. “But strings break."

“And so do fingers, Teddy, if you're not careful,” Adam insisted, swinging his legs from where he was perched on the baluster. “String magic is good for storing spells that take a long time to cast. In the field, you only have a few seconds to react. You won’t always have the time to put up a proper shield or even lift your hands. You think you can rush your way through Massey's Algorithm in less than a minute? No way, kid. This way, you can prepare your spells and then just cast them whenever.” He made a long flourishing gesture and tried another, more complicated knot. “See? There. That was a minor kinetic spell. Half a minute to prepare. I’m sure you know other ways of doing the same thing. Now, you try.”

The boy nodded. He looked down at the string piled in his palm and, with flawless execution, lazily reproduced Adam’s one-handed Forms. His casting style bore the mark of a formally trained mage: perfected angles between fingers and the punctilious  _snap-snap-snap_  between Forms. “We used coins and clothes,” he said absently, but did not explain further. “This is good finger exercise, Mister Adam, but you’re teaching me something trivial and primitive.”

Cassie bit her lip and arched an eyebrow.

 _Trivial and primitive…_ Adam scowled. _What the hell kind of nine-year-old uses words like 'trivial' and 'primitive'?_

“I can do coins,” he said, only now realizing the folly of presuming to teach magic to a child of the Seven. “But it’s all built on the same principle of Form. Ritual circles work the same way.”

Teddy nodded again. “String magic is just not useful,” he said. He removed the string from his hand and held it out over the drop as if to release it in the wind. But a look crossed his face and he pocketed it instead. He turned his attention back to Adam’s phone.

“Wow, that's just... wow,” Cassie murmured in an awed whisper, trying to keep the conversation going. She had her own string too but only for show and when she tried to do the Forms, it tangled and slipped from her hand. She caught it before the wind could blow it away.

“Jeez, Cassie,” Adam muttered, quickly reaching over Teddy's head to grab her by the back of her collar. “Careful. That’s a long drop.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She flashed him an embarrassed grin. “How do you guys do that?”

Adam shrugged. He disentangled the string from his fingers—again, one-handed—and stuffed it in his breast pocket. “Years of practice, I guess,” he said. “Doctor Strange took me in when I was about… what? fifteen? sixteen? Maybe seventeen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Right. Whatever. I don’t remember. Anyway, it’s easier to train flexibility when you’re still young and the bones haven't set. Doctor Strange was an exception in that sense but he was a surgeon before that so maybe that helped, I dunno. Come to think of it, he wrecked his hands too. I dunno. Magic's weird that way.”

Cassie hummed and sighed, studying her own flailing hand. Then, much to Adam's surprise, she launched into a simple heat spell. And judging by the bored look on her face, she wasn't even aware of doing it.

 _Huh._ Now wasn't that interesting?

Accidental spellcasting. That was how most mystics discovered they were magic, at least for those who weren't _born_ _to_ magical families. A spell, subconsciously cast, often bursting out in an explosive display of special effects powered by years of pent-up mystical potential. It wasn't always as innocuous as a heat spell; sometimes, it could manifest in a violent, even  _fatal_ distortion of physics, depending on age, latent talent, and even temperament. There had been cases—not many, perhaps only a couple of times in a decade, though it had been somewhat of an epidemic back in the days of Salem and now in this Pro-Registration world—that had gotten so out hand that they necessitated intervention from the elusive First Seven Families. Those invariably ended in tragedy, for both the nascent mage and his loved ones—and the magical community too, for they had always been lacking in fecundity and so every magical practitioner (yes, even the apprentice of the most ungifted potion-maker) was precious. 

But this time, nothing happened.

“I guess I’ll never be a witch,” Cassie sighed, oblivious to what had just transpired.

“Mage,” Adam corrected her with a frown, paying close attention to her hand now. "Don't be too hard on yourself," he said. He lifted his eyes and shook his head. "I've learned just recently that magic requires some form of... genetic purity." One of her ancestors must have been a mystic too and the Pym particles had probably corrupted her genome.

Shame, really—though perhaps, on second thought, she was better off this way, away from the corrupting world of magic.

With a dramatic groan, Cassie flipped her hair and released the string. She watched it fly away: a slash of red against the pale blue—a birthright, denied. She sighed again.

“This is nice,” she said, closing her eyes and leaning back on her hands. “We don’t get a lot of days like this.”

The truth was that she loathed Genosha’s climate. The heat was smothering, the humidity thick, and the mosquitos gigantic; even Adam, with his adopted Madripoori constitution, found it unbearable sometimes.

But sometimes, not too often but sometimes, the weather would be just right and they'd take out the kids to play. Today, a brisk morning wind blew at her face, throwing her hair back in a wild trail. She tilted her head back and smiled, humming again. "So nice."

The sight reminded Adam of a memory: a tangle of gold fluttering in the wind, the open road, the sun. Laughter, music, and a vague sense of grief. The sticky heat of leather against his skin.

He looked away to the city beneath them and massaged his leg as a distraction. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Nice day.”

“Does it hurt, Mister Adam?” Teddy asked, eyes darting between the phone and the blasted leg.

It always did these days. He hadn't suffered an attack in nearly two weeks but the chronic pain was always just enough that he could never quite forget that it was there.

And yet, he smiled at the kid. “No,” he lied. “Not today, buddy. You done with my phone?”

Teddy looked up from his game and grinned back, missing teeth and all. “Just a bit more?”

"All right. Just one more game, okay? I need to send a message."

"To Auntie Ray?"

"Yes, to Auntie Ray." 

 _Auntie Ray_... he thought with a smirk. _Oh, she'd like that_.

"She scares me," Teddy said in a half-whisper.

Adam snorted. "That's okay, bud. She scares me too."

They might have looked like a wholesome family—a man, a woman, and a child in-between—if not for the fact that no wholesome parent would allow his child to sit on a parapet hundreds of feet in the air, short legs dangling carelessly over the perilous drop. 

Theirs was the tallest spire in the western wing and behind them, a flying buttress arched and cast a thin shadow. They had positioned themselves on the parapet so that the shade fell on them, a cool respite from the eastern sun. To his left was the colossal southern wall, against which the bulk of the castle seemed to rest. It was actually part of an ancient dam built sometime during the age of antiquity to hold back the rising waters of the cove. Near the top of this dam, a row of long bridge aqueducts shot out in a gentle slope, conveying salt water into the castle, where it would be rerouted to the lower levels for treatment and desalination before finally entering the city pipes. This served the dual purpose of providing Hammer Bay's water supply and powering the castle's backup generators by coupling the running water to a series of turbines to store hydroelectric energy.

The bridge aqueducts also, admittedly, looked rather picturesque, and it was a shame that only the residents of the castle could see them. The water from the ducts deposited along stone gutters, which flowed into channels bored into castle walls and along other decorative ducts. These ducts had been prettified as engraved canals running through galleries and hallways and statues spouting water into collecting basins that drain back into the walls. And in some ballrooms, the floors were made of glass so that the water could flood the space underneath to create a shimmering, sunken effect.

Adam studied the aqueducts and saw that some were already broken so the water fell instead and cascaded down as artificial waterfalls. It gathered in a pond in the southern courtyard, where the water then divided into rivulets trickling to roadside canals by way of artfully carved ditches looping through the garden under bridges and around islets.

Above him, a large cloth flapped in the high winds, heavy with purpose and stout with pride. It was the new royal flag, dyed in royal purple and bearing the sigil of the House of Magnus: a grim M, all dagger-points and straight-cut edges and flanked on either side by what appeared to be horns.

“Did your Family have anything like this?” he asked, wincing as the bottom edge snapped at his face with a surprising sting.

Teddy looked up and stared briefly at the flag. If he found it as gaudy as Adam did, he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Yeah,” he said, turning back to the phone. “But it didn’t look so…”

“Diabolical?”

Teddy gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We called it the ‘Sun and Ship’. And we had this room with statues of previous Heads.”

“Ooh. Fancy.”

“They talk.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Teddy’s face soured and he gave a curt nod. “All they do is complain about how things were better when they were alive and how me and my cousins are all doomed because of iPhones and video games and whatever.”

“Well…” Cassie said, stifling a laugh. “Kinda, right?”

“Oh.” Teddy narrowed his eyes and turned to her, a look of pure distaste on his small face. His tiny features pulled into the center of his tiny face. “You’re one of _those_. They’ve been complaining about something for hundreds of years. Gong said it got pretty bad during the Industrial Revolution.”

Adam twisted his lips in an amused smile. "Yeah, I bet."

"Yeah! And they try to talk to you about how great everything was when they were still alive."

“Okay, you win," Cassie said, chuckling. "Your talking statues win."

Teddy nodded solemnly (because to Teddy, all topics of conversation—even humor—deserved solemnity). “They used words that I’m not supposed to say,” he said.

Adam was laughing openly now. “I bet!” he said, wiping away the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“That’s where Popo used to send me whenever I misbehaved and she'd tell them to talk to me because she knew I hate it. And the statues were right, now I'm the last of my Family but I don't think it's because I played video games.”

And just like that, the mood shifted and the laughter died. Adam looked over the boy’s head and exchanged a glance with Cassie.

Besides Adam, only she and Sami would spend time with the young mages; the other castle residents seemed to know what they'd done and, whether mutant, Inhuman, or other mystic (in fact,  _especially_ other mystics), they all feared and avoided the Seven. And Cassie, overcompensating, felt it fell on her to be their champion and primary caretaker. She made sure the kids got to be kids again; in fact, even these little excursions had been her idea.

 _Say something_ , she mouthed at him, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

Adam grimaced and lifted his shoulders in defeat. But she shot him a stern look and he found himself rolling his eyes and turning back to the boy.

He gave Teddy a small smile and found nothing to say. To create and bequeath their Hands of Glory, the previous Heads of the Seven had to die at the hands of their heirs—all part of the circularity of the spell's Ouroboros structure: the snake devouring itself.

Which meant Teddy had to kill his own grandfather.

And what could Adam say to that? What words, short of a spell, would convince this child to forgive himself for taking the life of his beloved Gong Gong?

He wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders and drew him in an awkward sideway hug.

“It’s gonna be all right, kid,” he forced himself to say, wincing as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Looking out over the city, he sighed and wondered if it had come across callous. He turned back to Teddy, then back to the city, and then rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing what to do with his hands.

“I don’t blame myself,” Teddy said, as though reading his mind. The boy was looking up, watching him with those wide, earnest eyes of his, worried that _he’d_ upset Adam. “Or you,” he added quickly. “I don’t blame anyone. It is what it is.”

 _‘It is what it is’.._. _Jeez._

He looked back at Cassie and saw her lips curled and her eyebrows knit in concern. She shook her head slowly and took Teddy’s hand in hers but whatever it was she was about to say was interrupted by a soft thud behind them.

They turned and saw Kostja approaching.

“Heir Supreme,” the sweaty boy grinned, winded and panting. “Coming up today?”

"Hey, Kostja." Adam looked up: bleach-white cumulus clouds plodded across the sky, hiding the sun’s face. He could just about make out the five black shapes as they swam against the gale and dove in and out of the fluff. “Not today, buddy,” he said, the third time in two weeks.

Kostja, unsurprised by the response, simply shrugged. Then, he turned his attention to Teddy and with a wicked grin, leaped the gap between them and pushed the smaller boy off the edge.

There was a short moment when Teddy’s face paled and his eyes widened before he slipped off the stone.

“Ha!” Kostja shouted triumphantly. “Gotcha!”

Horrified, Cassie and Adam leaned forward and watched the shrieking boy plummet through the air, short arms flapping in wild expansive circles as he rushed through the spell. Beneath him, arches and buttresses crisscrossed over each other and two shorter spires thrust up, glinting menacingly like twisted spear blades in the sun. The seconds ticked by and Teddy grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

"Aw, shit—I mean shoot," Adam said, glancing at Kostja. "My phone."

“He's not gonna make it." Cassie reached over and grabbed his arm in a death grip. "Oh my god, do something!"

And Adam, though it dismayed him to admit it, found himself worrying too. He reached out a hand but before he could even carve out a Form to save the boy, Kostja caught his wrist and held it back.

“Faith, Heir Supreme,” the boy said reproachfully, his tone gentle but firm. His countenance had taken on such gravity that it unnerved Adam to find it on a face so young. “We are Children of the Seven.”

There was a loud bang and Adam twisted back to look between his knees. And there was Teddy, floating slowly with a haughty look on his face.

“Eight feet,” he said, when he was finally level with them, his hair and clothes rippling languidly around him. He tossed the phone back at Adam.

Kostja whistled and ruffled the boy’s hair. He was much older—twelve to Teddy’s nine, a vast gap to children around that age—but they were the only two boys among the Seven so they were natural friends. “Not bad!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Teddy grinned, pleased with himself. He cast a quick one-handed spell and flicked a finger at the other boy’s chest.

Kostja made a terrible sound as the spell punched the air out of his lungs. Teddy lobbed another spell and an invisible force caught Kostja by the ankles, flipped him upside-down, and flung him up and up and up towards the atmosphere until he reached the gray belly of the clouds, where the rest of the Seven were playing their games. Then, there was a loud crackling sound—an entropic bomb that dispelled all active magic in the vicinity—and Kostja, followed almost immediately by the rest of the child mages, plunged in a vertical drop.

“I think I can win this time,” murmured Teddy, who had never won even once. He floated over Adam and retook his seat on the parapet.

Cassie shook her head disapprovingly. “You should stop playing this game. It’s so dangerous.”

“Neha can get as close as four,” Adam said, ignoring her. He watched the Six hoot and scream as they hurtled towards the Earth.

“Yes. But Neha-jie is crazy,” Teddy retorted. 

“You're _all_ crazy,” Cassie muttered.

Teddy stuck out his tongue at her and turned back to Adam. "And jie's _old_. She's thirteen. So she doesn't count."

"So what if she's old? Anita's fourteen and she's never won a game. Just like you."

"That's just 'cos Anita-jie sucks," Teddy muttered, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest.

It was a vicious game they played: the goal was to fling oneself off roofs or towers or even midflight and fall as close to the ground as possible before activating a levitation spell. There was no formal beginning to the game; it was triggered simply by gravity—whenever someone jumped or fell or was shoved off a cliff—and the rest were then honor-bound to follow, as failure to participate would impugn a child’s dignity.

Children played it all the time, they had assured him, and as they themselves were children born to magic, they must play it too.

The Six floated up from the base of the tower, already bickering over whether Teddy even reached terminal velocity to qualify (he didn’t but Adam bit his tongue, knowing better than to butt in and get caught in the crossfire).

“Fly with us today, Heir Supreme?” Samantha asked after Neha had been named victor, just as he had predicted. "We could cast the spells on you."

They could, but it wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't be moving under his own power and it would only dampen his mood to remember what he'd lost. "Sorry Sam." He shook his head and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Not today.”

"Okay. Maybe next time," she said, smiling back. With a shrug, she took a few steps back and leaped off the stone.

The rest trailed behind her, all except Teddy, who simply stood on the parapet with his tiny fists by his sides, watching them climb the sky. He turned back to Adam with a searching look.

“Go,” Adam said, gently pushing him over the edge. “Have fun.”

The boy let himself fall, only to surge past them a few seconds later in a whip of wind and laughter, flying faster than the rest to catch up.

Adam enjoyed watching them fly. There was something... _innocent_ about it. They’d learned when they were still so young and so it was natural to them, like walking or running, and they flew with neither pomp nor self-consciousness. It was a little uncanny too, not simply because a mage in flight, floating with his hair and clothes rippling around him as though he were underwater, looked a lot like a ghost but also because they were children and one could never quite forget that monstrous power brimming, overflowing, in their small, fragile bodies.

"They adore you," Cassie said, once Teddy was out of earshot.

"I am Heir Supreme," he replied in an empty voice.

"Come on, Adam." Cassie placed a hand on his and its warmth was a grounding presence. "This goes way beyond that."

"You think so?"

"Mm-hmm!"

"Even Teddy?" 

"Oh, _e_ _specially_ Teddy!"

Adam hummed to himself and chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "You know... I threatened to kill his grandparents. You know where he was while I was telling his Popo and Gong Gong that I was going to pry open their rib cages?" He paused and looked at her for a while. "In the other room, crying and banging on the door."

"I think..." she said slowly. "I think he understands."

"Yeah." He placed a hand against his forehead and shook his head. "And that doesn't feel weird to you?"

"What can I say?" she said, shrugging. "They love you, Adam."

"Oh, they _love_ me!" he said acidly.  "That's just great! I basically slaughter their families and they  _love_ me."

Cassie stared at him for a long moment, her brilliant blue eyes boring into his muddy browns. "You have to learn to forgive yourself," she said as she withdrew her hand. "You didn't know."

He scoffed at the platitude and looked out to the city stirring beneath them. And for the first time, he allowed himself a moment's weakness and let the mires of thought and memory drag him under.

"I was just a kid, Cassie," he said, swallowing the knot of words that pushed against his throat. He was suddenly tired. And he felt so old. "And they wanted me dead. I mean—how does someone do that to a kid?"

"For the greater good," she echoed, the mockery unmistakable in her soft voice. "That's how they did things back then."

"I didn't want to die, Cassie. I thought if I just disappeared, then the world would be safe from me. And I would be safe from the world. So I became this." He gestured at the length of his body. "I became this _Adam Thorne_." The words felt vile on his tongue. "But in the end, people still got hurt. Four hundred are dead because of me, Cassie. Four hundred members of the most powerful magical families are dead. All because I was too chickenshit to stand up to Stark."

He paused and looked to his lap, shaking his head as he closed his eyes.

"Did I do the right thing? Maybe I should have just turned myself in. Should have let Logan find me and kill me. Then I wouldn't have opened the gates to Mother and I wouldn't have become Heir Supreme and all this could have been avoided. How do I forgive myself knowing I could have stopped all this from happening?"

He looked at her, expecting her to have the answer, but she didn't say anything, knowing that her silence was what he needed most of all.

"I ran away and broke myself and now I can't become Sorcerer Supreme unless I fix my soul—or whatever imitation of a soul I have inside me. Fuck, maybe I _am_ a demon. Well, whatever. Point is, I can't do that unless I find a book that may not even exist." 

Cassie gave him a sad smile. She watched him for a while and the wind blew around them, whipping her hair and clothes. And for a moment she looked so much like the children of the Seven in their ghostly flight. She tilted her head, as though in the grip of an epiphany. For a while, there was nothing but that roaring in his ears that drowned out everything else.

"You didn't know," she said quietly once the wind had died down, her small face filled with so much warmth and softness that he didn't deserve. "They were hunting you down, all those heroes we used to look up to and call friends. I mean the Wolverine. God, Adam... If he found you, he'd have—" she paused abruptly, her face paling at the conjured imagination. "You wanted to be safe, I get that. I would have done the same thing; we all would have. Kate too, I bet. I know we all think of her as this new Black-Widow-slash-Hawkeye hybrid superspy and maybe she is now but back then? She'd have run. We _all_ would have. So don't be too hard on yourself.

"What happened to you... what they tried to do to you... it's horrible, Adam. It terrifies me to even think of what could have happened if they caught you."

"Is it stupid of me to think that Stark would have stopped the whole thing anyway?" he asked, peering up at her with a hesitant smile. "I almost did, you know? I almost gave myself up. I almost convinced myself that in the end, they wouldn't lock me away or kill me. They were my heroes and I wanted to believe that."

Her eyes darted to his. "No," she said, firmly. "You did the right thing. The war changed the Avengers, Adam. Everyone. Especially Uncle Tony."

"But he was still—"

"No. You weren't there. You didn't see how everything and everyone fell apart. After what happened to Cap, everything changed. We all blamed each other and even after the War, the fighting never really stopped. Uncle Tony gave out as many pardons as he could but it was always there... the fighting... the resentment... the blame... all simmering under the surface." She paused again, eyes drifting past him for a second. "I ran away too, you know? After the war, everything got so messy and painful and I just couldn't live with what we did—what _I_ did. I betrayed you guys, remember that? I left and joined the Pro-Regs."

"You thought it was the right thing to do."

She nodded tersely. "Back then, I was so convinced that I was doing the right thing. And then—" Her voice caught in her throat and she looked down to her lap. "I didn't know... I didn't know they would go that far.  All along, th-they were going to throw away the k-key. I didn't know. I thought it was just a prison."

With a slow inhale, she reined herself in and shook her head as if to also shake away the thought. She turned back to him with a sympathetic smile. There was a look on her face—a sort of peace, or self-forgiveness.

"I was ashamed of myself. So I walked away from you and Eli and Kate. I thought it was the right thing to do, the same way you thought the right thing to do was to run away and hide after Uncle Tony sicced Wolverine on you. And I think no one can fault us for that. 

"We were so young, Adam. So young. The world had no business expecting us to be anything more than kids." She was nodding to herself, convinced of her own argument. "Expecting us to be heroes..."

"If I could do it all over again," Adam said. "I would never have put on the cape."

"For what it's worth, as far as heroes go, we had our moments. I mean, we did save some lives. And we did the best we could, right? Even now we're still just doing what we think is the right thing, even when we're not sure. And I think in the end, that's what counts for being a hero. To just... try your best to do good and to save people. _To just try_ ".

"That's a pretty low bar, Cass..."

"No. We were heroes, Adam. We all were. You and me and Uncle Tony and Cap. We were all just trying to protect the world, trying to make it a better place," she said fervently, with a conviction bordering on desperation. "And maybe someday, we can still be again."

He studied her for a while... her tired eyes... her little half-smile... her long hair flying freely in the wind... and he had to wonder if she was saying this to him or to herself.

"The mighty Young Avengers," he said with a wry smile. "What has become of us? Two deserters and a catatonic druggie. Only Kate got it right. But the way she talks about her work, she's more like a pencil-pusher now." 

"The world turned upside-down around us, Adam," Cassie said, obstinately refusing to let him deflect and run away. "We did what we did to survive. And you thought everyone else would be safe. You did the best you could."

"People died because of me, Cassie!" he snapped. "The children had to kill the heads of their Families. Did you know that? I turned them into murderers."

Cassie shook her head and sighed. "We've met bad people, _ge_ _nuinely_ bad people, and you're not one of them. You have to forgive yourself for the things you didn't know you didn't do. Because _the_ _y_ obviously don't blame you." 

"Well, they should." He looked up and searched the skies. "I think I just need to be alone right now."

“Okay. I think I need a nap anyway." She glanced briefly at the drop beneath their feet and shook her head.  "Don't do anything stupid.”

"I won't. I'm self-loathing, not self-destructive."

"Yeah, right." Cassie clicked her tongue but she got up and left anyway.

Adam watched the children streaking overhead, the image reminding him briefly of their dead fathers and mothers in Cape Hope, circling him in that wretched Ouroboros Circle.

“Go ahead. I'll look over them,” he said, though Cassie was long gone.  

 

It was obvious. And, still, also a little funny. Cassie and Adam had succumbed to the domestics. It was the kids, mostly. Whenever Max and the weather permitted it, they took them to the towers, where Cassie could keep an eye on them as they played their violent games, or out beyond the western skirts of the city, where they explored the unmapped forests and caves at the foot of the Greater Crescent Range. 

In the afternoons, after the day's adventure, they would take a short hike up the lip of the dam to watch the cove shimmer and sparkle, as the light of the setting sun caught between the folds of shallow waves. The children liked to glide over the water, fingers and toes just breaking the surface, and they would chase each other and conjure frozen sculptures until they got tired. Then, they would all race back to the castle, sliding down the narrow bridge aqueducts, balanced bravely on the slender, slippery arches without the use of magic.

They ventured out as often as they could and as far as Adam's cane would allow. His leg always hurt a little, but sometimes the pain would be so great that it felt like someone had shoved their hand in his leg and were rattling the bone from the inside. On these days, he would lie on the cold hard floor, flat and immobile as a board with his eyes closed and his teeth grinding, and he would wait until the pain had subsided just enough that he could drag himself into the bathtub and wash off the cold, sour stick of sweat on his skin, moaning and pressing his throbbing head against the cool tile.

On such days, when his body wouldn't cooperate for a proper adventure, the Seven would instead go down to the city and help Sami with the resettlement of the island’s burgeoning refugee population. The Seven proved to be indispensable there—largely because they were children and could, therefore, charm the mutants and Inhumans into accepting the magical aid that they would have otherwise spurned from the older mystics.

But the children didn't enjoy charity much, not simply for the lack of stimulation that all children craved, but also for their lofty contempt of the impoverished, an unfortunate byproduct of their childish selfishness, which was largely unchallenged (and sometimes, Adam suspected, perhaps even encouraged) by their privileged, entitled lives. They complained about the heat and the smells in the city, where the bulk of Genosha's unwashed population lived, and often made a face at having to touch a refugee.

But they had been brought up in aristocracy and so were polite enough to reserve their nastiest remarks for the privacy of Adam's room or their own tower. Of course, it also helped that Teddy knew a spell that desensitized the nose.

They couldn’t bring Eli to these trips, of course, for reasons that ranged from logistical to political ("An MGH-user walking among mutants?" Adam's grandfather had said, with an upward turn of his nose. "I don't think so." And though he indulged his grandsons many concessions, on the issue of Eli he would not budge) but he didn't seem to mind—or perhaps he was now lucid enough to pretend not to mind. He was content to stay in his tower, which he shared with Ted, who had become his full-time nurse, and whenever the kids were especially loud, he would look out his window and wave at them as they flew past.

Sometimes even Sami would tag along with Adam and Cassie, when his duties as Genosha’s Officer of Assimilation allowed him the time. This particular appointment was a stroke of genius on Adam's part. As far as Sami knew, it was his tenure as one of the Sanctuaire’s Councilmen that spoke to his qualifications; he was, after all, well-acquainted with the logistics of categorizing, moving, and settling large groups of people and was, therefore, suitable for the office of assimilation. Obviously, here was _some_  truth to that particular line of logic but there were other, more qualified candidates—statesmen, diplomats, sociologists, politicians—and a significant minority of the council expressed uncertainty (and, from some, outright hostility) at the idea of giving any modicum of influence to someone who wore a suppressor collar of his own volition. 

"The potential political symbolism of it," Councilor Ramirez had noted, "Should not be so callously underestimated. Think of the sort of ideologies it could inspire."

"Samism. Sounds like sadism," Councilor Lee had agreed. "Or is that masochism I'm thinking about? Councilor Rodriquez would know. In any case, we are a small country. A young country. And mark my words, fellow Councilors, the rise of a new Genosha would not be left unchallenged by the powers of the world. We need a country of armed men and women, ready to defend itself; we do not have the luxury to indulge such petty freedoms if it should risk an outbreak of  _pacifism_."

And to compound all that, there was also the suspicion and scorn heaped on past citizens of the Sanctuaire Chamonix, the crown jewel of Tony Stark's post-Registration world. To the eyes of the Genoshan council, they were tainted goods at best and blood traitors at worst.

It was only upon Adam's intervention that the winds of politics finally shifted in Sami's favor; the council voted to put him in charge of a small bureau of about a dozen officers. "A test run," they'd said. And in return, they'd extracted a promise from Adam that he would attend their weekly meetings from then on.

And to Sami's credit, he rose to the task and adapted quickly to his new role. Keeping busy was good for him, and perhaps work was his version of therapy—or at the very least, a good distraction from the destruction of his old home. A month in office and he had already resettled a third of the refugees living in the underground bunkers into Hammer Bay's residential neighborhoods and had used his Sanctuaire connections to open new trade routes to relieve the fledgling nation's increasingly strained food reserves. He was excelling to such a stupefying degree that there were now whispers of granting him discretionary powers and officially creating a Department of Assimilation with him at the helm. Even Max Eisenhardt, Lord Regent of Genosha, who maintained a tolerant but chilly relationship with the local Inhuman community, had somewhat thawed and acknowledged Sami's performance to the council. 

All that was good and well but Adam’s felt proudest of his machinations when Sami surprised the team with a proclamation of a personal nature. It was the first time he'd decided to join them for dinner and after dessert, he airily refused the offered whiskey. He rose to his feet and declared loudly, with a stiffly affected indifference, that he had been sober for four days and could no longer imbibe with them. Everyone clapped and shook his hand and although the man still grated Adam, he was happy to see that practiced plastic smile again.

And it wasn't just Sami who overhauled his life: Nate's self-imposed pre-emptive rehabilitation had kicked into overdrive and had eclipsed all other concerns. Even his fixation on repairing the timeline had been quelled somewhat—though not without the gratuitous drama.

The boy had simply disappeared, much to everyone’s worry and consternation. And after a few days of frantic searching, they'd come to the conclusion that he'd simply left, unable to bear a second goodbye. Adam and Eli were disappointed, Cassie was distraught, and everyone was in a somber mood for a couple of weeks until Ted found him skulking around the kitchen at around four in the morning, perched on a countertop and munching on a bun. 

As Adam heard the story told, the boy met Ted's shock with an absent stare and a curt, perfunctory nod before turning back to his dinner, unaware of the trouble that he'd inadvertently caused.

Ted dragged him to breakfast the next day so the baffled boy could explain—in the face of Adam and Cassie's unified fury—that he had stumbled on an armory behind a false wall in his room and it simply hadn't occurred to him to inform anyone of his intentions to relocate. He'd begun his work on animating his suit, he'd said. He wanted to take care of it now, he'd said. Right now while Adam was still recuperating.

"Worlds to save, timelines to fix," he'd said with a hero's grin. "I'm always so busy!"

And so, possessed by this singular purpose, he withdrew from them and shunned all human contact—even Cassie’s—and even after a promise that he'd drop by more often, they only ever saw him every other week after that.

Kate and Ruixian had all but vanished too. They sent messages periodically—Ruixian through Adam, and Kate through Ted or Cassie—if only to allay fears of their demise.

With the case of the Seven closed, Kate had taken time off from the Avengers and had retreated to one of her Roosts, moving on to unravel other mysteries that were beyond the formal jurisdiction of the Avengers (because even if they _were_ under Avenger jurisdiction, she quipped, it would have taken days justto pierce through the bureaucracy and draft a formal mission). She wasn’t very forthcoming with the details and what tidbits she did volunteer were purposely scant and vague. She admitted only to two things: first, that she was backtracking her steps and taking another look at the conspiracy that had led her to Mauritius in the first place; and second, that after the fall of Sanctuaire Chamonix, she'd begun disseminating and planting her spies in the other Stark Sanctuaries.

“It still doesn’t make sense,” she remarked, during that first and only call she’d made to Adam. “Too many actors. Governments. Hydra. A.I.M. S.H.I.E.L.D. This is larger than the Seven.”

Secretly, Adam surmised that she just didn't want to be in the same space as Eli, who was a constant and painful reminder of their old team's failure. But he agreed that there were still missing pieces and though magic had been repaired—at least momentarily—there was still the question of why the magical community had been left unmolested by the malignant force that was still decimating the Inhuman and mutant populations. Therein lay the deeper mystery.

After that, she went on radio silence for a couple of weeks until she finally made a half-minute call to Cassie just to say that she was dropping off the grid indefinitely.

They haven’t heard from her since.

Ruixian, on the other hand, was diligent with her daily texts, if a little self-indulgent (often nothing more than a picture of what she was having for dinner or a bitchy remark about the weather). Whatever it was that she was looking for, she didn’t find it in the States—or in Japan, China, or any other major superpower. Neither was it in the research hubs of Madripoor, Sincong, or even Latveria. 

But she was patient and indomitable and her bright, perpetually irritable disposition did not relent one bit. She complained of boredom and exhaustion—too cold, too hot, too dry, too wet—yet it was clear that she was glad to be away from Genosha and from him. She called him a moron for the gift he’d given her but since his spell prevented her from sending it back, she thanked him anyway.

Sometimes, she called too and, oh, how he loved hearing her shrill voice. They would stay on the phone for nearly an hour talking about nothing and everything, all the places that she’d visited and the latest happenings in Genosha. Most of her questions centered around his injuries or, to his private amusement, Eli, who had been staying with Ted and was practically under quarantine from the castle’s mutant residents. (For his own protection, he'd assured her once, but she clicked her tongue and hung up without their customary goodbye.)

She snapped pictures of all the places she'd been: the Grand Canyon, the Great Wall, even the fallen carcass of New Attilan half-submerged in the Hudson. There were other, lesser known places too, in secret the corners of the world that Adam couldn't identify—perhaps a salt flat or a sea of frost flowers or a tree almost as tall as a skyscraper. He treasured those the most because she’d often include her hand in the shot (though never her face!), posed in a victory sign, and in those days, that was the only way he ever really saw her.

She mailed him trinkets too—though as to how she'd managed to find a service that delivered to a country that didn't really exist just yet, he couldn't hazard a guess—and so far, he'd received half a dozen hand-woven bracelets, a few books with creased and yellowed pages, and a wooden keychain in the shape of a small, angry, anthropomorphized penis. He groaned and rolled his eyes at that one but he hung it on his phone anyway.

Her most precious gift to him, however, was just a slip of paper. Not papyrus or vellum or anything fancy and no infusion of any mystical energy either. Just a slip of paper.

She’d sent it to him while she was in Manhattan and the first time he saw it, he was too choked with emotion to even ask how she’d figured it out (though in later years he would come to realize that Kate had been a much better mentor than he’d given her credit for).

He treasured that slip of paper. He rolled it and kept it in a glass vial, which he hung around his neck where it would remain until the end of his days.

It held just one word: _Kaplan_.

And he thought it was the most important word in the world.

 

These were their golden days and in Adam's memories, they would be forever colored by fondness and guilt.

Their group had broken up and their lives had begun to diverge and yet he couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It was a good sign, he told himself, a sign that they were no longer clinging to each other like children afraid of the dark.

For the rest of his life, he would remember the Seven sculpting the clouds with their childish hands or spreading their arms as they slid down the aqueducts. He would remember Sami's practiced smile and his brown beckoning hand welcoming every new boatful of asylum seekers, and Cassie laughing under the glare of a morning sun as her golden hair fluttered in the wind. He’d remember, too, the rare glimpses of Nate, with his grease-smudged fingers and his hair standing up with static, and Tommy, who'd occasionally disappear for weeks on secret missions at their grandfather’s behest. He’d even remember Ted whose endurance, whenever he needed to vent for the pain in his leg, was nothing short of heroic. And he'd remember, especially, Teddy, with his nimble fingers and his serious face.

Weeks flew past him in flashes and vignettes and he grew accustomed to the peace and quiet of Genoshan life.

They feasted, they drank, they sang, and they even danced, when his leg permitted it. And for a moment, he could almost fool himself into thinking that it would be forever.

Still, the specter of the coming war loomed over them, like the dark cloud of an imminent storm. And when it broke, it rained down in a deluge.

 

It was a strange night when that dream finally ended. They were at the tail end of November and Genosha, defying all climatological sense of the sub-tropics, had actually cooled down, almost cold enough to warrant a jacket or a cardigan.

Tommy was shipping out again the next day and for this mission, he was expected to be away for the three weeks, which was almost twice as long as his longest assignment before, and so he and Adam had decided they would have a night out. Disguised with one of little Teddy’s psychological enchantments, they snuck out the castle and trawled the city for hours (no superspeed, Adam had insisted), looking for anything interesting they might do. 

They visited the western quadrant first, paying particular attention to the city's residential areas, where Sami had been transplanting families from the underground bunkers in batches. The reclamation efforts were surprisingly quick under the Inhuman's direction and though the houses and apartment complexes still bore the marks of war, they also had an unmistakable air of domestication: fresh paint, trimmed lawns, indoor lighting and, being so close to December, even Christmas lights. Along the sidewalk, pedestrians walked, floated, and flew about and it was easy to imagine they were in just another suburban neighborhood. It all looked so... normal. And in one particular subdivision, the streets were lined with carnival game stalls and hawkers selling toys and street food. Children whined and screamed as they dragged their grumbling parents to the stalls for a gift or a snack.

 _How could they fool themselves like this?_ Adam thought to himself, wondering how these people could settle with this forced, makeshift life as if Hammer Bay were a real city and Genosha weren't a made-up country—a _fake_ country. And how were they paying for goods and services, exactly? They didn't even have a nationalized currency yet!

And still, the whole thing reminded him of Melaka and this sentimental pull trapped them there for almost an hour, sampling the food and helping children beat the games and win prizes—old toys and shiny knick-knacks and other trinkets that had been salvaged from abandoned houses. 

They only left when one of the stall attendants (accurately) accused Tommy of cheating and Adam had to drag his indignant brother away by the collar. They stuck to the less crowded areas after that, exploring the other parts of the city which were yet to be reclaimed by humanity: dark roads, half-burned buildings, and empty houses filled with unmade beds and unwashed plates on the dinner table. Sometimes they would find other explorers like them: groups of teenagers daring and psyching themselves into creepy, abandoned buildings, lovers in search of privacy, or prostitutes prowling for clients.

They walked on and found old, rusty cars and parks overgrown with weed, and then, finally, a sunken field where the ashy remains of old Genoshans were shielded from the destructive winds, petrified forever in their final moments of terror. There was one in particular that caught Adam's eye: a figure crouching, its face pressed against a small bundle in its arms. It reminded him of one of the fallen in Cape Hope, that woman who held her dead baby to her dead breast.

"Come on," Tommy said when he saw Adam's face. "This way."

And so they kept walking, aimlessly, and somehow ended up trodding in a northward trajectory, up a gentle slope and eventually passing through a set of toll gates that marked Hammer Bay's northern edge. Abruptly, the world became a desolate flatness to either side of a straight, smooth road. Above them, the sky was a firmament devoid of clouds, a vast emptiness that made the world insignificant and small.

Near the horizon, low, blocky structures cropped up on one side of the road and as they walked closer, those turned out to be the walls of a huge complex of squat government buildings, which Adam suspected used to be some sort of military base or research center or mutant experimentation camp. Just across the road to that complex, was a grid of satellite dishes, each dozens of feet high and across. They had been tilted up towards the same patch of sky, like sunflowers seeking light—or, more ominously, giant faces waiting for something to come out of the darkness of space.

The thought chilled Adam and he drifted a little closer to Tommy as they walked past.

The road stretched farther out for a short distance until it finally terminated in a sort of town, a sprawling suburban enclave studded with flickering flashes of red bonfires that seemed to reflect the starry skies overhead. It was the northern encampment, one of the few communes housing unsettled refugees outside Hammer Bay. Here, the houses and streets were fashioned in a classical Roman style and there were statues, fountains, and gardens to mark the affluence of the original inhabitants—probably the families of the personnel who'd worked in the nearby military installation.

It was probably an homage to Genosha's founding history, Adam thought, or maybe an organic legacy of her Romantic roots. After all, there were other such structures inside the city: Roman houses, plazas, bath houses, even tiny temples. Hammer Bay, however, wasn't as committed to presenting a coherent architectural style and this Roman heritage was only sporadically expressed.

"Wow," Adam said, taking in the sight of cobbled roads and open canals.

"Yeah. See there?" Tommy pointed at a street lamp. "Those actually run on gas. We'll probably take them down and install electric ones."

Adam released a deep exhale and clicked his tongue. "Too bad."

"Yeah. But we need it functional," Tommy said. "Come on."

They wove through the clusters of tents and houses and sleeping bags. The settlers stirred and watched them warily but otherwise ignored them. Slowly, they made their way to one of the houses on top of a gentle hill, where they could hear thrumming music and see pulses of multicolored light.

Adam paused just outside the doors. Inside was a crowd of mostly young people, dancing with beer bottles in their hands. "Oh my god, is that...?"

"Oh my god." Tommy turned to him and flashed a wide-eyed, tight-lipped smile. "Yes, it is! Okay, little bro, be cool, be cool. Don't embarrass me."

They had stumbled onto the infamous Night Market, a weekly rave which elicited much head-shaking and tongue-clicking from the council. It changed venues every week and there were supposed to be clues scattered here to help you find the next location. Tonight, as in other nights, it was packed with the gyrating bodies of mutants, Inhumans, and other unwanted offshoots of humanity, and there, at the makeshift bar, was Smiling Sami, knocking back kir royales.

Exchanging a grin, the twins stepped in the house and joined the crowd, dancing awkwardly as they sifted their way to the bar. The music had a good electropop beat and a nice rhythm and even though an abominable smog of sweat, cologne, and deodorant permeated the air, it did little to dampen Adam's excitement. After a moment's confusion at the bar, when they had to shout over the blaring music to explain away Teddy's glamor charms to Sami, they found a relatively quiet place at the center of the atrium, where the open roof framed the stars over a rectangular central pool.

“I heard you made a scene at the meeting today,” Tommy said as he dipped his bare feet in the shallow waters.

"Yup. Sure did." Around them, the cool night air rang with the cacophony of a hundred different tongues. "Always fun."

The scars on his arms and face flashed in the moonlight but Adam knew that thanks to Teddy’s spell, they would be invisible to anyone else. He wondered briefly what guises the boy had concocted for them; he hoped it was hot enough that a cute guy would talk to him.

“You know I think people used to drink from these?” Tommy said as Adam sat beside him and unlaced his shoes.

“Yeah, they used it to collect rain water back in the day,” Adam said, removing his glasses and pocketing them. “Half these meetings are a waste of time. Last week, we spent an hour debating whether we should call ourselves Genoshans or Genosho.”

“Genosh _i_ ,” Tommy said, rolling his head back and closing his eyes. His lips parted open, as though in exhaustion, and he propped himself against Adam's shoulder. “Genoshus is the masculine singular,” he said sternly, opening his eyes and throwing a reproachful look. “Genoshae is the feminine plural. Genoshi is for both singular and plural neuter. Also masculine plural, I think.”

"Right," Adam said with an inward roll of his eyes. "I forgot. We're burglarizing and mutilating Latin declensions."

“What’s the female singular?” Sami asked, seated to Adam's right. He looked bored, like he didn’t really wanna be there with them, and he was playing with the thin chain of his suppressor collar again.

“Uh… Geno...sha? Shit, no, that doesn't sound right. Genoshe? Fuck, no that doesn't sound right either.”

 _Genoshe_ was right, though it was pronounced the same way as _Genoshi_.

But Adam didn't say. Instead, he groaned and pushed Tommy off his shoulder. “Come on, guys,” he said. “Don’t start that crap again. We’re here to have fun.”

“Heavy is the head,” Sami said absently.

Adam turned to him and glared.

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ,” Sami laughed, raising his hands in surrender.

“Whatever cloak and dagger bullshit my brother and grandfather are up to, leave me out of it. I am _not_ the crown prince,” Adam insisted, scowling. “Or heir or whichever term the council is going with. Tommy is.”

"I am many things, little brother,” Tommy said, rolling his head again. “But King I am not. And are you allowed to say that, Sami?” he asked, leaning back to look at the Inhuman.

"Say what?" Sami raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Say Jesus Christ," Tommy said. "I mean, you’re Muslim, right?”

“Yes, I am," Sami said matter-of-factly. Then, he paused and drew his eyebrows together, as though reconsidering. "I mean I guess so." Another pause. "Sure, why not.”

“So isn’t it like…” Tommy leaned towards him and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Really _haram_?”

And Sami, without missing a beat, leaned towards Tommy too and, in his most deadpan, most _American_  voice, whispered, “It’s like... really not.”

Adam snorted and smirked to himself, thinking of Sami's other, more _haram_  activities. They had come to an unspoken understanding not to talk about _it_ and as much as he was tempted to make a bawdy joke right then, their present amity was built on too precarious a foundation to risk for an attempt at humor.

With an aborted chuckle, he averted his eyes to the dark waters, where he was making small circles with his feet, and replaced his glasses on his nose. He watched the silvery ripples spread across the black surface, thankful that the universe didn't decide to ruin his night by crippling his leg. He'd still brought his cane, of course, just in case, but it was the retractable metal one that he could keep in his pocket; he might have brought the nice wooden staff that Tommy had gotten for him, the one with the promised orb that sometimes glowed (the precise mystical mechanics of which were still a mystery to Adam, though he suspected it was somehow calibrated to reflect his mood), but it was too showy and cumbersome and he wanted to keep his hands free for swinging overhead (and, hopefully, other more exciting, unspeakably  _haram_ activities—though not with Sami).

“I wish Eli were here,” he said with a yawn. He grabbed the now-warm bottle of beer he'd set on the floor behind him and took a deep gulp. “Then Cassie wouldn’t have felt guilty coming. And then I would have told her to wear something slightly slutty so Nate would probably have tagged along too. Then, we'll all be here.”

Tommy and Sami laughed and for a while, his ears could hear nothing else but the sound of that laughter, the pounding music, and the raucous hooting of a nearby knot of what appeared to be teenagers.

 _We should make drinking laws_ , he thought absently, watching them.  _I'll make a proposal in the next meeting._

“You know why you couldn’t bring him,” Sami said, plastering on his diplomatic smile.

“You can’t bring an MGH-user to a mutant party,” Tommy added, more brutally. "Or anywhere else in Genosha, really."

"Teddy could have made him a disguise too," Adam said.

"Too risky," Tommy replied, turning serious.

Adam lifted his eyes and looked at the stars for a moment, considering his response. They were so bright. So beautiful. He would miss them most, once the city's polluted with light. “Not like you want them here anyway,” he said finally, looking his brother in the eye.

“It’s just weird, okay?”

“Why is it weird? They know you didn’t really want to hurt them.”

Sami snorted, an obnoxious and disgusting sound that asserted itself over the din. “But he did,” he said, as he knocked back the last of his champagne. 

“Not helping!” Adam hissed.

"Whatever.  _Garçon!_ Another round for me and my friends, please: kir royale, San Miguel, and soda water. Thank you." He turned back to Adam and Tommy and scowled. "Don't look at me like that. Champagne doesn't count!”

"Sure, Sami," Adam said, rolling his eyes over to Tommy. "So why is it weird?" He asked again.

“No, it's not that,” Tommy said. “It’s just… It’s weird seeing Cassie and Jonas.”

“What?” Adam frowned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Why's  _that_ weird? And who the hell is Jonas?”

"Nothing. Forget it. Forget I said anything."  With an abrupt grin, he stood up. "Okay. Up, up, up."

"But... my champagne!" Sami protested.

Tommy ignored him, clicking his tongue and tugging insistently at their collars until they finally relented and stood up. He dragged them to the makeshift dance floor in the peristylium, where the night was heady with beer and vodka and the sweat of rocking bodies. Someone had rigged spotlights made of empty ration cans and the ravers waved their glow sticks over their heads, turning the whole place into a technicolor dance fest.

They squeezed their way through the roiling mass, pressing and rubbing against the bare skin of dancing strangers until they found a relatively empty spot near a stone bench (in case Adam had to sit). There was already a small group of white kids there—Americans by the drawling twang of their Southern accents—and they were already inebriated enough to welcome them to their group with nothing more than a whoop and a call for another round of shots. There was no exchange of names and unfortunately, to Adam's great disappointment, no one tried to flirt him. Their group danced in a tight circle and soon enough, he was sweating too. He jumped and swayed and lost himself to the beat for what felt like hours until someone finally turned off the lights, eliciting scattered  _boo_ 's from the crowd, and it was time to go home.

“So that was fun,” Tommy said as they walked along the smooth road back to the city. “Right?”

Adam glanced at him sideways and nodded. “Yeah. I had a great time.” He stuffed his hands in his armpits and shivered. “We’ve talked about this, Tommy. You don’t have to keep asking me that every time we hang out.”

“I know. Sorry. Habit. Are you cold?”

Despite the faint buzz of alcohol under his skin, he was. And to make matters worse, it had begun drizzling and the weather was just cold enough to chill the precipitation without turning it to snow. And, of course, just to be thorough in their hypothermia, they’d all lost their shirts. Adam vaguely remembered whipping his in circles over his head but other than that, it was all a blur.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Please don’t try to share your body heat with me. It’s weird without clothes.” 

“And Sami’s here,” Sami said.

“And Sami’s here.”

Tommy frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. Half-naked under the moonlight, he was practically glittering with scars. “Yeah, yeah. Wasn’t gonna,” he mumbled. 

Adam looked at him briefly, immediately feeling guilty. What a mean and thoughtless thing he'd said.

“Your leg?” Tommy asked.

“Also fine.”

They were already past the tolls and were now making their way down the slope. Before them, they could see the city, dotted with lights tracing out roads and sidewalks against the forbidding black. The houses and buildings in the reclaimed sections glowed brighter still, like the nerve centers of a colossal organism and in the distant south, their castle loomed over the city of Hammer Bay, a black, forbidding silhouette that blocked a quarter of the sky and hid the cove from view with its breadth. Even at night, there was something arresting at how it towered over the city, like a giant statue brooding in the shadows, eternally watchful, eternally awake.

“It’s amazing,” Adam said. He looked at his shoes, now stained with spilled beer and God knows what else, illuminated by the dull glow of the streetlamp. He watched the loose gravel fly as he kicked at the ground. Then, he turned back to the city and smiled. “Look at that. Before I came here, I thought Genosha’s in ruins but you actually pulled it off.”

“She's got good bones,” Tommy said proudly. “And reparation's a lot faster when your engineers and laborers can move things with their minds. Just wait until you see it finished. I'm proposing to reopen the schools in the next council meeting."

"Oh, that's nice of you."

Tommy shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Kids should be in school," he said firmly.

Adam turned to him and smiled.

"Stop giving me that stupid oogly look," Tommy said, flushing slightly. "Sami gave me the idea, anyway. He said he could get it done in a month."

"Wow," Adam said, glancing over at Sami. "You really do work fast. Maybe your superpower's actually super bureaucracy or something."

He knew it sounded lame as soon as he'd said it and, as though to confirm this, Sami rolled his eyes. "I like kids," he said. "I was in charge of youth affairs in Chamonix."

"You were?"

"It was one of my duties, yes."

"Well, look at you..." Adam smiled, teasing. "You have depth. Who knew?"

"Has anyone told you that you're actually not funny?"

"And this is just the beginning," Tommy interjected. "Grandpa's too conservative. Too military-minded. He looks at Hammer Bay and all he sees are barracks and training grounds. It's all conscription and army-building to him. When you’re Lord of Genosha—”

“I’m not going to be lord of anything, Tommy. And by the way, does it have to be an absolute monarchy?”

“It works for plenty of countries.”

Adam snorted. "Oh, really? Latveria, anyone? North Korea? Sincong?"

“But also Qatar, the Emirates, Brunei…” Sami listed off. “Monaco? I’m not sure about that one actually but surely, there are others. Oh, and also Vatican City.”

Tommy nodded along. "And this modern flirtation with democracy is an unrealistic ideal. Without an educated electorate, it's a ticking time bomb."

"Big words," Adam said. "That's so fucking elitist, Tommy."

Tommy shrugged. "Just saying."

"He is right," Sami said. "Most people know next to nothing about economic policy and international relations. It would be illogical and irresponsible to let them decide who's fit to be a leader."

"All right, all right, I get," Adam said, feeling a little betrayed. "Monaco's not a true monarchy, by the way, but I get the point. Maybe democracies aren't so great either. Maybe monarchy works sometimes. For some countries. Maybe."

"With a good king, yes," Sami said, smiling at him. And it looked so genuine it made him a little uncomfortable.

“Grandfather wants you on the throne, little brother,” Tommy said simply.

He ran ahead and was back a couple of minutes later, throwing a jacket over Adam and Sami.

“And I agree," he continued, picking up the thread of conversation. "You _should_ rule.”

Adam mumbled his thanks, stealthily taking one last look at Sami’s bare chest as they zipped up. But Sami caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, to which he responded with a snort and a roll of his eyes, as though to say  _As if._

“I’m not going to be king,” he said, a little petulantly. “It should be you. I'm not worthy.”

“ _Worthy_? This is not Thor's hammer we're talking about. God! You're such a fucking drama queen!" Tommy said with a glare.

"If it's so important to you, why don't  _you_ be king then?"

"Oh, fuck off. Like anyone would be dumb enough to follow me."

"Well, I would!" Adam insisted, throwing a searching look at Sami, who closed his eyes and politely shook his head.

"No," Tommy said firmly. "It’s decided. You’re going to be Lord of Genosha.”

“But—”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Sami interjected, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Why don’t you both be king?”

They both turned to him and stared, aghast.

“What?” Sami shrugged nonchalantly and smiled innocently. “Twin kings.”

“Shut the fuck up, dude,” Tommy said, just as Adam burst out laughing and said, “Oh, man, that’s nasty. That's sick, Sami.”

Sami’s smile grew bigger and he shrugged again. "Twin kings?"

"Hah! Yes! Twin kings!"

Sami raised his hand in a mock salute. "All hail the twin kings! The twin kings! The—"

"Twin kings!" Adam finished for him with another salute.

“Twinkings! Twinkings! Twinkings!” They shouted together as they executed a stiff military march and pumped their fists in the air, much to Tommy’s annoyance.

“Oh, I don’t like this,” he muttered. “I don’t like this at all.”

“What?” Adam chuckled. “Twinkings? Oh come on, it’s catchy. And let's be real. Look at us. We both look like—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, ha ha ha. I was talking about—I mean... I don’t like _this_.” He gestured vaguely at Adam and Sami. “This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be Te—”

“Don’t,” Adam said sharply, lifting a forefinger between them. “Don’t say his name. Don’t do this to me. We're having such a good time right now so... just don't, okay?”

Tommy turned away, a grim look settling on his face. He combed his silver hair to one side and folded his arms over his chest. “So fucking selfish,” he said quietly. “He’s not just yours, you know?  _I_ want him back too, even if you don’t.”

“Uh, guys?” Sami tried to interrupt, stopping dead in his tracks.

“That’s unfair, you know I want him back too and I _will_ get him back. But don't expect more. He doesn't want me anymore so I just have to accept that. And so should you."

Tommy turned back to him and sneered. "Fucking idiots," he muttered, shaking his head.

"And for the record, you can stop worrying about me and Sami because Sami doesn't like boys so that's never going to—”

“Guys! Look out!”

It all happened so quickly. One moment, he was frowning at Tommy's scowling face and the next, he was crashing on the ground, Sami's arm flung protectively over his neck. They fell in a tumble, skidding a few feet and skin scraping against the asphalt.

Behind them, an explosion of sound and heat as the missile that had arced overhead and missed them by a good couple of feet. Adam strained his neck to look up and saw four men in black, standing behind a boulder.

They raised their guns, all semi-automatics, but before they could open fire, there was a blur of silver and they fell to the ground, shrieking.

Tommy reappeared behind Adam. "Up, up, up!" he said in a low voice, grabbing him by the upper arms and pulling him back to his feet.

Adam scrambled against him, searching the ground with his hands for his glasses. “Tommy what did you—”

“Relax, little bro." Another flash and Tommy replaced his glasses on his nose. "I only broke elbows and knees. Up, up, up. Is your leg okay?”

He was starting to talk too quickly so Adam only nodded. He kept his eye on the men still writhing on the ground and then took a long, slow look around, flexing his fingers in front of him, spell-ready. To his side, Sami was already on the phone, calmly snapping instructions at someone on the other side; his other hand clutched at his collar, as though holding on for safety.

“Standupstandupstandup,” Tommy said again, lifting him by the armpits.

Another explosion, somewhere in the castle. Gunfire, followed by a thunderous crackling sound. Then, silence. Adam swayed on his feet.

Tommy held him firmly by the shoulders and steadied him. “You’renotsafeherelittlebrotherweneedtogetyouout,” he whispered, face mere inches from Adam's and eyes hard with steel.

“Wha—”

“Don’tworryabouthimI’llprotectthimIswear.”

“Slow down! You’re talking too fast!" He paused, looking up. "Wait, is that…”

Something behind him caught Adam’s eye—there! Up in the air! Five black masses shooting out of the castle and streaking across the sky, hurtling towards the Earth like shooting stars. Behind them, the atmosphere burned a bright orange—striated pink and red like a fierce dawn—and with a flash, the sky turned blue, as though suddenly plunged in daytime. Around them, the air swirled and diffracted like a mirage as they unleashed their mighty spells upon the sleeping city.

"Stop!" Adam screamed at them. "Go back! You're just kids!"

He took a step forward, even though he knew they couldn't hear him, and then something clicked behind him and the sudden pressure of rapidly expanding air knocked him forward. For the second time, he flew in the air and crashed on the gravel again, skinning his hands and knees.

"Fuck!" he heard Tommy yell.

He saw, in the periphery of his vision, a blue shimmer enveloping them. One of the kids must have cast a protection spell over him when he wasn’t looking. He quickly took stock: raw skin on his arms and legs but nothing broken; his leg, his spiteful leg, remained miraculously pain-free. Inside the shield, Sami was curled up and lying on his side, still dutifully issuing commands to his phone even as he bled out of a nasty gash in his temple.

He turned his attention outside the barrier, where Tommy was a blitz. There were six men already on the ground but a lone woman kept him at bay somehow. The silver streak dashed around her, hitting from all sides. Her clothes tore and her hair whirled with an unseen wind but she didn’t seem to feel any of it.

Tommy paused, just in front of Adam and Sami, and in his hands were a pair of knives, impossibly bent.

 _Unbreakable skin,_ Adam thought.

He brought out his cane and, with a quick whip to the side, extended it to full length. With practiced ease, he called to the power resting in his belly. He felt it stir and respond to his will, surging through the bones of his arm and charging his cane; his conjured lightning split the air, making it smell like ozone. He swung the cane up and launched himself forward.

The wind pressed against his face but before his feet could even leave the ground, he was already stumbling back

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he yelled at Tommy, who was holding him back by his jacket.

"Don't," Tommy said in a low voice, eyes trained on the woman. "You're still too weak. Don't push yourself."

"Fuck you, Tommy." Adam threw the cane to the ground and disentangled himself from Tommy's grip. He retreated a few steps back and Formed secretly with his hands behind his back.

“North site clear,” the woman said, swiftly scanning the scene. “Target not in sight.”

Adam was just about to detonate a concussive spell when something swooped overhead and landed in front of them with soft, impractical grace. Pushed forward by the inertia of her descent, Anita moved toward the woman and, without breaking stride, lifted her hands in front of her and began weaving her Forms.

The woman's eyes found the girl and quickly recognized her as a threat. But just as she took a step forward, Anita threw something in the air and cried a word.

The woman stopped, as though under the sudden grip of an epiphany. A beatific calm settled on her face and her eyes drifted up, looking in awe at the space above them.

Anita kept walking, fingers still twirling and bending in quick, forceful strokes.

A brilliant light shining down. Blinding but cold—freezing cold—as though it had sucked out all the warmth from the world. A rustling, like the falling of dead leaves, which turned to whispers. A beautiful, singing voice, though it scratched at Adam's ears.

The woman smiled and began to weep, falling to her feet. Then, Anita stopped, just a foot away; she placed her hand on the woman's forehead and the singing turned to silence.

"Oh, thank you, mistress," the woman said, as her eyes and ears wept blood. "Thank you."

She fell face-first to the ground, twitched once, twice, and then was still.

Another pulse of light.

And the world was warm again.

 _An Empyrean spell?_ Adam thought. The hair on his arms stood on end.

“The city is being evacuated and the bunkers have been secured,” Sami said, putting away his phone as he climbed back to his feet. “The attacks seem to be centered on the castle. Organized, by the looks of it. The council is requesting reinforcements in the East Wing.”

“Let’s go, then,” Tommy said. “It’s superhero time.” He turned to Adam and whispered, “Come on, baby brother.”

“Anita, what did you—”

But the child’s hands were quick. Already, they were in the middle of wringing out another spell. Complex. Spatial. Adam looked over his shoulder, expecting another attacker, but there was no one there. He turned back to the girl just in time to see her hands focus on him in a triangular formation.

There was a gust of wind on his face, followed briefly by a vague sensation of being turned inside-out.

And then he was somewhere else: a dark room, all made of stone. It was dusty and mildewy dank and the air smelled mightily of oils and rat piss.

“A three-point Castle?” he asked out loud, looking up to see the strings hanging from the high ceiling. His voice returned to him in an echo.

“Yes, Heir Supreme,” Teddy said. “Koko Kostja’s with your friends now.”

Adam tried to conjure a spark and was unsurprised when it leaped to the floor and quickly dissipated.

“Kathelynna’s Charm of Greater Earthing,” Teddy said.

“Smart.” The tower would withstand a thousand lightning strikes.

He looked around him and took stock. The chamber was vast. No windows, no doors—probably camouflaged against the wall by another psychological enchantment of Teddy's. Above him, the ceiling was high and conically shaped, supported by a network of wooden beams. There was no way he'd make it out without a fight.

“Let me go, Teddy," he said, letting his eyes fall back on the boy. Through the thick walls, he could hear the sounds of battle—men and women screaming, punctuated by explosions and gunfire.  "Please. They need my help.”

Teddy shook his head.

“Don’t make me fight you,” Adam said in a harsh voice. “Please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

"Why would I—" The boy blinked back, as though the thought had never occurred to him. "You? Hurt _me_?" He smiled at the absurdity. “You could try.”

“I’m stronger than you, Teddy.”

“Maybe back then, when magic was still broken.” The boy lifted his right hand and snapped his fingers. “But not anymore, mister Adam. Not with Gong's hand in my pocket and the collective memories of my Family in my head.”

The strings descended, spinning in their own axes as they floated around them like wriggling, parasitic worms. Dozens... no, probably in the hundreds, each representing a Reciprocal Form that could cancel out whatever spell Adam tried to cast.

 _String magic?_ he thought with a wry smirk.  _The little bastard._

“This isn't good,” he muttered to himself before shifting his eyes back to the boy. He cleared his throat and spoke with what he hoped was an authoritative voice. “Teddy of the First Seven, as Sorcerer Supreme, I command—”

“You are not Sorcerer Supreme.”

“Then as Heir Supreme, I command y—”

“The Heir Supreme is under the protection and guidance of the First Seven. You are our ward and have no authority over us—" Teddy paused and tilted his head, as though listening for something. "I’m sorry, Mister Adam, but the others need me.” He brought his hands up and began a series of Forms. “I'm so sorry. I hope this, um... I hope this makes up for it.”

Adam tried to lunge at him but the boy was clever and had quicker fingers, shifting easily from his formal snap-snap-snap to a more fluid but faster style. The sudden change caught Adam offguard— just a split-second distraction, really, but enough to trigger the trap. It was one of those sly enchantments that infiltrated the mind as soon as you saw it cast, like the coin toss trick he sometimes used. Immediately, the spell caught him in its iron grip and weighed him down. He tried to take a step forward but he wobbled uneasily and fell instead to one knee.

“I'm sorry, Mister Adam,” Teddy said again, standing over him. "But I saw what happens if you join this fight. You get hurt and you don't make it out."

"Maybe..." Adam mumbled, turning drowsy. "Maybe I deser—"

"No," Teddy said firmly.

Another spell. The boy's body flowed and surged forward, defying the rigid movements of classical spell-casting techniques. His arms and legs folded and unfolded in long, languid strokes, almost like a dance, and Adam watched, rapt, as Teddy leaned back and his leg extended forward and traced a half-circle back.

"Adam Thorne," Teddy said in a hallowed whisper, chest heaving out and hands pushing forward in the Form of the Ouroboros.

His arms rose overhead, hands flaring now like wings, and his fingers curled and twisted as he brought them down, layering the Forms over the ones his legs and arms were making. 

A full somatic spell? Such a method of casting had been theorized but the mathematics was too involved. Too many equations running simultaneously to keep track and mathematical principles too obscure and academic to grasp. Yet somehow, this nine-year-old mage had worked it out.

And to think, Adam had the gall to try and teach him magic!  _String_ magic!

He watched on, awed and terrified all at once. It was a highly imperfect cast, wasted arcana leaking out in swirls of light and smoke. Teddy's fingers turned green and traced iridescent streaks in their wake as they carved out the Forms. There was so much wasted energy that Adam could feel the heat of magic on his face. Such inefficiency!

And yet he had never seen a spell so beautiful.

 _What is this?_ He thought through the haze of this strange magic. _Time magic? Memory?_   _No. Something else. This is deep magic._

Teddy closed his eyes and said another name. Adam's true name. Adam saw the lips move but the sound was a blank in his head.

Everything blurred and swam.

"What's—" His own voice sounded distant.

"If I let you go, you'll die. I'm sorry."

The spell took hold. The world swirled around him and his body felt as though it were rearranging itself and trying to turn itself inside-out. The sensation reminded him of his early days with Strange, when his fingers were still too clumsy and he botched his Castling spells half the time. But he knew this was different. There was the sharp taste of pears and cinnamon in his mouth, for some reason, and his ears rang with whispers.

Swirling, swirling, swirling, in the dark, until suddenly everything fell quiet.

There was a wooden door in front of him, unattached to any wall, and behind it was the sound of running water.

_"Look!" A voice was saying. "It's beautiful."_

Adam held the knob, which was made of gold and was cold to the touch. With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped through.

 _He saw a light—no, not a light, but a_ glow. _Orange and lilac and pink. Soft. Pale. Spreading through the canvas._

_And there was warmth. Seeping through his skin. And the faint sound of water lapping the shore._

_He saw his feet, submerged ankle-deep, and patches of reeds that rose to his knees. The water stretched to the far distance, where it met with sun and sky._

_That warmth again. A different one. Not the enveloping warmth of dusk but a heavy, solid one._

_A hand in his._

_“I…” he began to say, stumbling over the words._

_He cast his eyes about and saw the world in bits and pieces, patches of shadows and glaring light. It took him a while to place where he was: another memory of a life he'd never lived, a trip to the sea with—_

_"It's nice, right?" said Teddy, smiling at the setting sun. "You know, we can walk towards the sea for hours and the water will never go past our ankles."_

_Billy smiled to himself and closed his eyes._

Focus _, he told himself._ You can do this.

_He felt Teddy's hand vanish from his and when he opened his eyes, he found himself displaced, standing somewhere else just a few feet away, a spectator, a voyeur to someone else's life._

_"How do you find these places, Tee?" the other Billy said, the one who had lived this life with Teddy._

_"Mom knows all sort of places."_

_"Let's bring her next time."_

_"Yeah."_

_Billy watched them hold hands, two figments existing only in memory._

_Then, he turned away and started walking._

_He knew where he was going. He felt the pull in his chest, an ache that grew stronger with each footstep. He walked on the foam, felt the sharp rocks and broken shells dig into his bare feet, and slowly made his way around the curved shore._

_To his left was earth—grass and flowers growing amidst the tumbled rock and bare soil crumbling from eroded cliffs—while to his right sprawled the sea, a flatness wrinkled by shallow waves. Above him, a burning sunset sky._

_Billy found him perched on a boulder, half-naked and looking out across the waters. He had one foot pressed against the rock, so that he could wrap his arms around one leg, while the other leg trailed down to the water, where his toes broke the surface and made eddies. The sun threw its light at his face, bruising it purple and ochre, but when he turned to look at Billy, the light slid over his skin and his face was so bright it was indistinguishable from it, as though it had become part of that very light._

_“Why?” Teddy asked softly. “Why do you keep bringing me here?”_

_Billy kept his eyes fixed on his feet, the water swallowing them with gentle heaves. “I didn’t,” he said. “Someone sort of... forced me here.”_

_Teddy was quiet for a while. He pushed himself off the boulder and walked over to Billy._

_“Me too. I was chasing a boy—"_  

_"Aren't we all?" Billy looked up and tried a smile._

_"I..." Teddy paused. He was close enough that Billy could feel the warmth from his body and smell the salt of his skin. His shoulders, in their unconscionable breadth, all but filled his vision. Billy wanted nothing more than to lay his head against that chest and weep._

_"I followed him through a door and the next thing I knew, I was here. I—” He took a deep breath. "I can't keep doing this, Billy. I can't keep coming back here."_

_"Yeah..."_

_"I don't belong here anymore."_

_It felt like a punch to the gut._

_"Yeah..." Billy nodded, without looking up. “I don't know why I'm here," he said. "But I think I was sent here to fix this... to fix_ us _. I'm sorry. I know I keep saying that but I don’t know what else to say.”_

_“Billy,” Teddy said, a pained look warping his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I—”_

_Billy raised a hand and cut him off. “No, listen, okay? Let me talk. I need to get this off my chest and after this, if you decide you don’t want anything to do with me then I promise you’ll never have to see me again. Okay? Please?”_

_Teddy studied him for a long second. "I'm sorry, Billy. I'm just... I'm just so tired." He gave Billy a weak smile and nodded. "But okay. if it helps you."_

_“Thank you,” Billy said, swallowing. “Look, Teddy, I’m sorry. Shit. I keep saying that."_ _He closed his eyes and huffed out a breath. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “I’ve never been good with words. You know that. I always break things with my words.”_

_He risked opening his eyes and glanced at Teddy, who kept his face a blank and unreadable mask._

_“Right." Billy didn't know what he'd expected. "The truth is… The truth is I don’t have any arguments to make."_

_“You don’t own me and we don’t owe each other anything,” Teddy said, softly but firmly._

_Billy nodded. “I know. It’s not—ugh. This is so hard.” He groaned and pressed his hand against his forehead. Then, steeling himself, he forced himself to look Teddy in the eye. “Teddy, look. I'm not perfect. I'm not even a_  good person—”

_“Billy…”_

_“No. It’s true. I’m not a good person. I'm probably a bad person outright, objectively speaking. If you only knew what I’ve done with my life out there.” He paused and shook his head. “I’ve made so many mistakes and with the power I have, some of them are on the colossal scale of stupid. Like... like Trojan War stupid or… or… Sansa trusting Little Finger stupid.”_

_That got him a wry smile. “Team Tyrion, right?”_

_“Team Tyrion. Right,” Billy said, barreling on. “I've fucked up so many times. Made so many mistakes." He paused again and gathered all his strength to say the words that he'd been meaning to say, the grand truth that he had been keeping, even from himself. "But don't think—don’t think for one second, that you are one of those mistakes. If anything, you are the greatest thing that has ever come out of these stupid powers. I hope you know that._

_“I don’t care if I made you. I guess I did and I admit that for a long time, I was too far up my own ass to realize that it doesn’t matter. Fuck all this abstract existentialist crap. I am me and you are you. And you might think that you are made of me or whatever but Teddy that’s so fucking bull because whoever you are right now, that’s all you."_

Are these the right words,  _he asked himself._ Am I saying the right things?  _His gaze had never left Teddy but whatever thoughts swirled in that golden head of his, he kept it hidden away behind that perfect mask._

 _"I look at you and I see this incredible man that I could never hope to be._   _I know you have free will and... and this is your choice. And I just love you so fucking much that it breaks my heart in here and out there that you think I see you as less than a person just because I made you._

 _"The Witch… she was a chaos mage and her whole life was just this drawn-out tragedy and maybe mine was supposed to be too, you know? Maybe the power to change reality comes with a long, miserable life. Maybe that's the price for this kind of magic. But you know what I think?” He paused again, willing back the tears that were starting to well in his eyes. “I think creating you saved me. I think_ you _saved me. Because I know what my life is like without you and it’s really, really shit. I've hurt a lot of people."_

_"You always did have supervillain tendencies."_

_"_ _Creating you was the single most important act of magic that I’ve ever performed and I'm so proud and happy that I did it."_

_"Billy, I can't—"_

_"_ You _are my redemption, Teddy Altman."_

_Something changed in Teddy’s face and his posture softened, shoulders slumping forward. "Bullshit," he murmured. His eyes fell to the ground. "That's fucking bullshit."_

_"I mean it, Teddy."_

_"Bullshit." Teddy shook his head emphatically. "I am me and you are you," he said, echoing Billy's words. "You have a story outside me, just as I have my own. I am not your redemption and I don't just exist in context to you. You have your own story."_

_"Well, it's a shit story." Billy took one of Teddy's hands and cradled it against his chest._ _“Do you feel that?” he said, grinning despite the tears. “That’s my heart. That’s the heart of a fuckup and it’s yours. Okay? Whether you want it or not. No returns. No refunds. Once broken, considered sold." He almost laughed, feeling himself sink back in a familiar pattern._

_Teddy groaned._

_"You roll your eyes because you think it’s cheesy but guess what, I_ am _cheesy. Only someone as cheesy as me can imagine someone as disgustingly perfect as you. I mean have you looked at this? I mean…” He flicked a hand at Teddy’s face. “Seriously? That is not normal.”_

_“Shut up,” Teddy said, his cheeks coloring. “I… I don’t actually look like this.”_

_Billy shook his head, still grinning. They stood like that for a long second, staring into each other's eyes, the hand of the dream over the dreamer's heart. Around them, the world was vermilion heat. The water flowed over their feet, the foam gathering between their toes. Somewhere, in the distance, two boys held hands as they chased the setting sun._

_“Do you know how I know that you gave me free will?” Teddy said, finally. He pulled back his hand and laid it against Billy’s cheek, thumb wiping away a tear. “I know because of all the powers in the universe that you could have given me… superstrength… superspeed… invisibility… Of all the powers and abilities, you know what you gave me?"_

_Billy stared at him, waiting. Sometimes, silence was as important as words._

_"_ _You gave me the power to change myself.”_

_"Shapeshifting?" He leaned against Teddy's hand and smiled. The idea sounded too mawkish to him. “You don’t think you’re reading too much into that?”_

_Teddy shook his head solemnly. “No, Billy. You gave me the power over myself."_

_Billy regarded him fondly, the sharp cut of his jaw, the soft curl of his lips. And those eyes. Blue... blue... blue... A memory of another sky._

_"Don't you see the significance of that?" asked the boy who was memory. "You gave me the power to choose.”_

_He placed his other hand on Billy’s cheek and held his face like something fragile, like the broken pieces that he had carefully put back together._

_"And once upon a dream, I chose this."_

_Teddy drifted forward. There was a moment. A heartbeat. A gap. They were so close and yet that distance was everything: an infinite gap compressed in an inch. Between reality and dreaming. Resentment and forgiveness. Separation and reunion._

_Billy felt himself leaning in, leaping across that gap._

_Teddy’s mouth was soft and wet against his and he tasted, somehow, like mangoes. He smelled like the sun, salty and burnt, and a little like the earth too, and Billy’s head spun with all the memories of a life he'd never lived._

 

_Teddy's breath was the wind of the open road, hot and dry as it carded through Billy's hair. The deep rumble in his throat a familiar melody playing in a car, a sad song made joyful. His rough hands the stick of leather on Billy's skin._

_His body was river water, lapping against skin and stone, against two boys rocking amidst the waves, making love for the first time._

_His eyes were the sky, burning bright and furious, without a speck of cloud or doubt. His heartbeat the thud of bare feet falling on soft soil, carrying their laughing bodies across a golden field._

_And his soul was a universe, unfolding for Billy like the pages of a comic book._

 

_“You hurt me, Billy Kaplan,” Teddy said, parting from him. “You hurt me more than I thought it was possible for me to hurt.”_

_“I know,” Billy whispered. “I’m sorry.”_

_Teddy rested his forehead against his. "I love you," he whispered. "I can't help that. But I also can't forgive you. Maybe someday. But not yet."_

_Billy closed his eyes and smiled to himself, knowing the bursting truth in his heart._

_They pulled away from each other and held hands._

_“What happens now?” Teddy asked._

_"What do you mean what happens now?" Billy arched an eyebrow and run his thumb along Teddy's. “You mean like… sex?”_

_Teddy grinned to himself, even as his face turned red. “Um… no. I mean yes to sex obviously but just... no sex right now._ _What are we gonna do, now? And I mean more generally like… I’m in here and you’re out there.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Well, it’s obvious, right? I’m going to bring you back?”_

_Another pause, as though the world held its breath. The heat bore down on his skin and the water swirled over his feet._

_“No,” Teddy said, with a sudden ferocity. His body tensed up and he grabbed Billy by the shoulders, his grip a little too tight. “Listen to me, Billy. You can’t bring me back. Do you understand?”_

_“What? I—”_

_“No, Billy, you can’t. You shouldn’t,” Teddy said, shaking him, face pale and eyes wide with terror. “They… They’ll never let me go. And they’ll hurt you if you try.”_

_“They? Teddy, let go, you’re hurting me.”_

_“I love you but you have to let this go, okay? Do you understand? You have to let me_   _go._ _Tell me you'd do it.”_

_Billy stared at him for a long moment, heart pounding in his chest._

_“Please nod. Say yes. Tell me you understand," Teddy pleaded and that look of despair broke Billy's heart all over again. "Don’t even talk about it in here. Live your life out there, Billy. Move on, become a hero, fall in love. Protect our friends. We’ll be together when we can, right here in this stolen world. But you can never bring me back, okay?”_

_“Teddy," Billy whispered. "Stop. You’re not making any—”_

_Teddy yelped and jerked away violently. His eyes rolled back and something flitted over his face, like a passing shadow._

_“No, no, no.” He fell a few steps back and slipped to the sand on all fours. “Not again, please. Not right now.”_

_"Teddy! What’s happening?” Billy crouched beside him and placed a hand between his shoulder blades. “ Fuck! Is it them? Is it—”_

_“What are you still—stop! Go away! I don’t want you to see me like this.”_

_“What? You’re not making any sense.”_

_Teddy looked up at him, eyes swiveling madly in their sockets. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth. Then, his eyes stilled, focusing on Billy, pupils dilating and constricting in alternation._

_“Oh,” he said, in a voice too young to be his. “She got me. I’m sorry. I couldn’t—"_

“—stop it, Mister Adam. I’m sorry.”

Adam stared at the scene before him. Bodies on the floor. At least a dozen men and women in black ops gear. Gunshot wounds to the head, judging by the splatter of blood and brain on the hardwood. Self-inflicted.

“I couldn’t save him,” Teddy choked out. “I’m so sorry, Mister Adam. I’m sorry.”

Blood. So much blood. The air was thick with its iron stench.

This wasn't a tower anymore—a bedroom, smaller than his.

There was a body draped over the boy's lap. Blond. Civilian clothes. Adam turned it over with his foot and Ted gazed up at him, chest heaving and gulping shallow breaths.

A few feet from his head lay a pink mass that was still oozing blood. The cut wasn’t clean—tissues torn and an irregular break; someone had reached inside Ted’s mouth and had pulled out the tongue by brute force.

Adam cast a spell and pressed his hand over Ted's mouth to staunch the bleed.

“It didn’t work. It didn’t work,” Teddy kept babbling. There was something wrong with his voice. A softness. A gentle gurgle.

Adam ran his free hand over the boy's face and neck and found the wound near the jugular vein.

“Help!” He screamed out the hallway. “Someone, help! Please!”

Teddy’s arms trembled loosely at his sides, both dislocated at the shoulders and bending at all the wrong places. His small, precious hands were a mangled mess of exposed flesh and protruding bones.

“Help!” Adam yelled again, wrapping his hand around Teddy's neck. “Stop talking, Teddy. You’re hurt.” He applied gentle pressure against the laceration but the blood kept gushing out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered as he dug his finger into the wound. “Where is it... where is it... oh fuck, fuck, please, please, come on!”

He found the nick about an inch deep and sealed it with the tip of his finger.

“I’m so sorry, Mister Adam,” Teddy murmured. He coughed, expelling specks of blood on Adam's face. “I failed you. The spells... they should have worked. She—”

“Stop talking. Please.” He leaned forward and pressed his chest against the boy's head. “Someone! Help! Please!”

He saw men and women running along the corridor; a few spared him a glance but no one stopped to help.

“Help!” he kept screaming. "Why aren't you helping?!"

_I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. Why aren’t they stopping? Why aren’t they helping? Please, anyone... help._

Hemoved as though in a dream: slow, detached, not really there. Was it Teddy doing this? Another one of his psychological snares? Or perhaps it was the design of Adam's own mind, a defense mechanism to protect itself from what was happening around him. In his head, the world had taken on a dull, gray quality and all reality had been reduced to the three of them... three bodies, physically connected, desperately attempting to stay death's hand: Adam's left hand clamped over Tedy's mouth and his right forefinger shoved inside Teddy's neck.

All he could think of now was that he knew the right spells. He had them at the tips of fingers; the Forms kept playing in his head over and over but his hands, trapped as they were, were powerless to cast them. 

"Oh god," he muttered, panic-stricken, as Ted began to seize. He bit down on the meat of Adam's palm, ripping skin and flesh, yet Adam barely felt it.

“My hands,” Teddy said softly, chest barely moving. His pulse throbbed weakly against Adam's finger. “They feel funny.”

“They’re fine. Ju-just—they're fine.” Adam closed his eyes and pressed his hand harder against Ted's mouth; the spell he'd cast was crude and it wouldn't hold for much longer. Soon, he'd be bleeding out again.

"I'm sorry, Mister Adam. It should have worked. I'm sorry. I couldn't stop her."

“I’m so proud of you, Teddy," Adam whispered. _Oh god, this can't be happening._ "So, so proud.”

“I can’t move my fingers.”

“Help…” Adam buried his face in the boy's hair and sobbed. “Someone... please... help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah for some reason, it took me a while to write up and edit this chapter. i'm not very sure how i feel about the earlier parts so let me know what you think! all comments, good or bad are welcome! we are now in the final arc; thank you for reading!


	13. Ouroboros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam Thorne reaches a breaking point.

The world had turned red.

Someone had found them, a little too late, and had pried his hands off the still-warm bodies—a woman, by the sound of the cooing voice, and she had strong hands that gripped his arms and pulled him away. 

"These two are still breathing," she had said as she beckoned to a couple of men. She smelled sour too, the kind of damp sour that stuck to unwashed clothes that had been worn for days. "Take them. Randy, cover up the rest."

She’d given him her name too but he couldn’t remember it now, only the clinical tone with which she had pronounced Teddy 'barely alive' and the methodical fashion with which she had rearranged the small body on the stretcher to give it some semblance of dignity: flat on his back, arms to the sides, hands folded daintily over his belly; Adam had had to keep his finger plugged in the boy's neck as she ministered some sort minor healing magic to staunch the bleed.

"The kid's not doing well," he heard her mutter to one of the men. "Take him straight to Doctor Michaels."

 _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry_ _._ The voice lingered in his ear, small and frail and waning, apologizing to the very end. _I'm sorry, Mister Adam._ The soft words of a child, filled with nothing but shame and despair.

When Adam asked the woman why nobody had stopped to help, she said nobody had recognized him, hadn’t known how important he was until Teddy’s charm had worn off.

“Are you injured?” she asked him now, hands roaming his face, his neck, his torso. Her voice sounded far away, muffled by a ringing in his ears. “Does it hurt anywhere?"

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

"Are you cold?”

He was still half-naked, he realized, and his feet were bare, although he only noted that in passing as his back slid down the wall.

"Talk to me, Adam. I need to know."

He shook his head dumbly and stared at his hands. It was an unnerving sight: his fingers bent and twitched, Forming spells that were pointless to cast now, but still they persisted, wet with blood and cramping with aborted magic.

He could still feel his finger an inch deep in Teddy's neck, feel the moist press of flesh, and that heartbeat, that thrum— _lub-dub. lub-dub. lub-dub.—_ steadily weakening, every systolic beat punctuated with a terrible fear of finality.

“Okay,” the woman said after a long pause. She took his left hand and wrapped it with a strip of cloth, covering the bits of gouged out flesh where Ted had bitten him.  “I have to go. There are still others.” And with that, she draped a cloth over him and left in a run.

Outside, the sounds of battle raged. Screams. Gunshot. The clang of metal against metal. All so far away. He thought he heard Cassie's voice, bellowing its low rumbling thunder in her giant form, but even that couldn't reach him. Ted had been mutilated and Teddy was dying and everything else was an abstraction. An abominable stench pervaded the room, consuming, overwhelming his nose, but it was the sudden silence that got to him—just a momentary lapse in the carnage outside, a ringing stillness that broke through the fog that had choked out his thoughts.

He stared at the purple cloth covering his chest, seeing for the first time the upside-down M that had been embroidered with golden threads. It was velvet too, thick and heavy and very soft. All so very regal, befitting the royal House.

 _When the fuck did they have the time to make this?_ He thought as he threw it off him.

Before him, bodies lay immobile on the floor, covered with white sheets. Was that what the woman had meant when she said that there were others who needed her? Was she running around with piles of white sheets under her arms to cover the dead? Did she have this special purple blanket made just for him?

From the looks of it, Teddy had fought valiantly; Adam could still feel the seduction of his psychological magic in the air and if he had been a weaker mage, he might have succumbed to the boy's enchantment and blew out his brains too.

"I'm so proud of you, Teddy." He smiled wanly to himself. "So, so proud."

He retrieved his glasses from the floor and replaced them on his nose with a Fixing charm. He spotted the purpling mass on the floor and pocketed it too—wet, slimy, and curiously stiff; he swore he would find a way to restore Ted.

"Fuck," he hissed as he climbed to his feet, using the wall for support and wavering on his legs. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples and when he tried to take a step, a sudden vertigo descended on him. He fell back to the floor and threw up, the acid burning its way up his throat.

 _Teddy_ , he thought again, staring at the puddle of mess through tear-blurred eyes. He grabbed the velvet cloth and used it to wipe away his tears and the particles of sick that had stuck to his lips. 

Half-crawling, half-stumbling, he made his way out of the wretched room and into the hallway. He dragged himself up the wall and leaned against it for a few minutes. 

"Okay." He took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. "You can do this."

 _Nothing left for you, Heir Supreme_ , whispered the ghosts of the First Seven, voices crackling like the rustling of dead leaves. Another psychological safeguard of Teddy's?

“No,” he said weakly, focusing on the peeling paint, the grain of the wooden frame of a painting, breathing hard as he prepared himself and called to the magic sitting deep in his belly. Water pooled around his feet, still and shallow; somewhere down the hall, he could hear the steady  _drip drip drip_ of water trickling from a broken fountain.

_Only death._

He limped his way across the hallway, taking in trembling breaths and closing his eyes for a moment. He thought he could feel the weight of their hands on his shoulders—though it might have just been an artifact of grief.

_Beyond here only death._

“No,” he said again and felt strength return to his voice. He made his way slowly, inexorably, taking small halting steps as magic surged through his body. "Not this time."

How did it come to this? How did he allow himself to get so weak that Tommy and Max thought he needed  _children_ to protect him? And how could he let himself accept that without a fight?

No. No more. He was Adam Thorne. A survivor. A mutant and a mage of the highest order. And from now on, no one else would die for him.

At the end of the corridor, a suit of armor stood, empty and rusted and forgotten by time. It bore the marks of battle—scratches, gouges, and dents—and its dark hollow eyes stared at him.

 _It will follow you to the end of your days_ , a lone voice said in the high, trilling voice of a boy, achingly familiar.

He thought he saw Teddy's shade standing by the armor, arms bent, hands broken, his skin cast in a grey pallor. His hair and eyes, so bright in life, now drained of color. 

_I saw what happens if you join this fight. You get hurt and you don't make it out._

And even though he knew it was all in his head, Adam faltered for a moment.

Goddamn psychological magic.

He casted Ricardo's Clarity and banished the specter.

“I am Adam Thorne,” he said firmly, defiantly, as he drew the sword from the scabbard. The sound it made as it broke free was harsh and grating to the ear. “I am the son of the Witch and the last mage of Chaos.”

Something jolted in his chest as he invoked his birthright, an old presence that he'd been keeping caged for as long as he had been Adam Thorne.

The steel gleamed dimly in the half-light, its edge dulled and chipped with age; he turned it over and drew a finger across its length.

“I survived the Avengers, communed with the Lady of Arayat, and ascended to the office of Heir Supreme.”

"Weapon pledged to no one..." The blade glowed a faint red from its core as it stirred to the touch of Adam’s magic. "I offer you my rage."

Something exploded from within his chest, searing and blinding white, burning an afterimage in his retina, and the water around his feet boiled away in a sudden burst of steam.

"Weapon without name, I claim you now."

Yes: a weapon. That was what he needed: one to cut both substance and magic. He made a series of Forms, wrapped his right hand just above the cross-guard, and gripped it tight, just enough that it drew blood.

“I am Adam Thorne, he who created himself.”

Another jolt in his chest—an ancient power waking in protest, a violent denial of this audacity.

 _Lies!_ I hissed at him.  _I_ _created you!_

Then, there was a flash of light, blood-red like a dying star to meet the white-hot burn of his enchantment, and the blade's edge shimmered and sharpened. In a slow pull, he drew the sword from his hand, as though it were a scabbard, and sliced through the flesh, burnishing the steel with his blood.

"My rage," he said, twisting his injured hand in a Conjugating Form—a basic contortion for abstract-to-physical tethering: thumb-to-middle, index-to-ring, pinky at ninety degrees at the proximal phalanx—dripping blood on the pommel. "To your substance."

He passed the weapon to his right hand, soaking the grip with more blood, and held it before him, arm straight forward. It hummed a low insistent note and a tremor rippled through the bones of his hand, to his skull, to his feet. He could hear it in his head, vibrating through bone plates and cartilage: a song of violence, of rage and wrath and death, the cold metal soul rousing.

"Sing to me."

In his head he saw an army, hidden in a cloud of dust: men and horses and chariots, spears pointed forward, as they raced for him, a glimmering of shields and polished armor. A battlecry, followed by the clash of men and beasts. Battle. Madness. Death. The sweetness of sweat and blood and human excreta. And then the silence of a thousand years.

“I am Adam Thorne,” he said again, his hair lifting as he took his rage and, wielding it like a sword, struck his soul in two. He cried out at the shock of pain and fell to the floor with a gasp. He knew it would hurt something fierce but he didn't think it would be like this—splitting, tearing, cracking, it felt like he was being ripped apart.

"I am Adam Thorne," he said again as he climbed back to his feet. He took hold of his mutilated soul, took the broken piece, and melded it with the sword. 

 _Adam Throne_ , he thought wryly. _Adept of enchantments._ _Hero to no one but himself._

A memory. A little boy peering up at him.  _Does it hurt?_ , he had asked, blue eyes shining with precocious intelligence.

Adam thrust the sword overhead.

"I am Adam Thorne," he said for the third time. "And I bind you."

And the world turned red again.

 

He threw himself through the window and burst through the sky in a shower of broken glass, bare torso prickling and hair whipping behind him as he hurtled towards the ground. For a moment he could hear nothing but the cold wind rushing him, sharp and stinging as it knocked the breath from his lungs. Around him the sky was a crisp morning blue, though a fine drizzle still misted on him.

Then, he heard the screaming. It came from everywhere, all at once, like a great unified howl from purgatory itself. He cast his eyes beneath him and saw the city burning red and black; the smoke rose up in billowing clouds, pouring out thickly of buildings and houses in columns of black as the Genoshan garrison pushed back the invasion.

Even from up high, Adam could smell it. Underneath the putrid ash and soot was that same sickeningly sweet stench of corruption that had suffused the Sanctuaire Chamonix the day it fell.

With a quick gesture, he reinforced the Fixing charm on his glasses and necklace, feeling the heavy chain pull at his neck as he fell. He spotted a group of Genoshans directly beneath him—all superstrength by the looks of it—about a dozen men and women, who were pushing back the castle gates against a churning horde that stretched a few blocks back. The gates hardly budged, neither fully closing nor giving ground, but the hinges had been torn off and against the inexhaustible onslaught, Adam didn’t know how long the Genoshans could hold.

There were troops manning the wall-walk too, firing wildly at the encroaching legion, and from up high, the thought occurred to him suddenly that it looked like a goddamn zombie apocalypse.

 _It's the same. The same as in the Sanctuaire._ The epiphany came to him with a shock, which was quickly overwhelmed by disgust.  _Where did you come from?_

He bent his knees and raised his free hand before him, bracing himself and gathering the necessary magic. In his head, he was already running the equations for the spell; he ran through them again and double-checked the vectors and coordinates and when he was ready, he began. The world twisted around him—flashes of sky and earth and smoke—as he spun and clawed his way one-handed through Descartes’ Impulsive Exchange. Taking aim at the line pushing against the gate, he timed his spell perfectly, only triggering it when he was a couple of feet from impact. He froze abruptly in mid-air as the kinetic energy of his fall shifted instead to his targets, who slammed to the ground with bone-crunching force.

"What's going on?" Adam asked the woman closest to him as gravity reclaimed its hold on him. His feet made contact with the earth with a soft thud. "Where's everyone?"

She turned to address him, opened her mouth, and stared.

"What's your name?" Adam asked, still to no response.

He took note of the gash above her left eyebrow, the split lip, and the darkly stained fatigues. Behind her was an orderly row of tents and inside, behind the swaying flaps, were men and women sitting on their haunches, with a faraway look to their wide, empty eyes and a slight gape to their mouths. A few were present enough in their heads to notice the new arrival, although when they turned to Adam, their expressions remained blank. One man trembled vigorously as he pressed himself against another man's side, eyes darting all about him even as he kept his head down.

 _War,_ was all Adam could think, as he stared at the shell-shocked soldiers.

A distant explosion broke through his reverie and he turned back to face her.

"Sir!" the woman said, with a crisp salute. Her eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. "Captain Swift of the castle guards, sir!"

Behind her, the men and women holding back the gates grunted as the horde on the other side gave a mighty shove.

"At ease, Captain. Are the civilians safe?"

"They..." Captain Swift's lip twitched. "Most made it to the underground bunkers."

Adam nodded and tightened his gripped on his sword. "How strong are the bunker walls?"

"Very strong, sir. It'll take a hulk to breach them. Four days under siege and no distress flares."

 _Four days?_ Adam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _They put me down for four fucking days?_

"How about supplies?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

"Enough to last a month. Maybe two, with rationing."

"Good." Adam nodded. "Good. All right. What's going on here? Where's the rest of the garrison?"

"Outside the city, sir. The home guard repelled the initial wave in the city but after we drove them past the western borders, the mutates came pouring out of the caves, splitting our forces in two, with more than half trapped outside the city."

" _Mutates_?" The word triggered something visceral in Adam's belly, something that made him shiver and his skin crawl. "Are you sure?"

"Apologies, sir. It's what the men have taken to calling them." 

Adam listened to the shrieking outside the gates, the fists and bodies hammering mindlessly against the metal.  _Mutate_ sounded about right.

"How many... mutates... inside the city?"

Captain Swift looked up and her eyes glowed purple for a moment. "About six thousand inside the city, sir, keeping our forces occupied. There is a blockade of about fifteen thousand in the western limits supported by a few hundred superpowered individuals. Their priority seems to be to prevent the bulk of our forces from returning to the city."

"Do we know where they're from? Are they SHIELD? AIM?"

Swift turned back to him and shook her head. "No clue, sir."

"What else can you tell me?"

"They have the numbers and the high ground in the west so their blockade is holding. Inside the city, they have the home guard engaged in twenty-one skirmishes. Residential areas, communication centers, supply silos, and hospitals seem to be the target. There was an incursion here as well. Largest of the invading force, with both mutates and superpowered men. They held the castle for a few hours but we managed to reclaim it."

"Wait. Hold on. You said _target_?" Adam frowned. "These mutates don't look organized."

Swift gave a brusque nod. "I believe someone's controlling them, sir. Perhaps this is a power—" Her eyes flitted to one of the men holding up the gates "—Inhuman, probably—" and then back to him "—or maybe magic."

"None of that, Captain. We've got enough enemies outside. We'll do a postmortem later. If this is an inside job, we'll deal with it then. For now, let's just focus on breaking the blockade." Adam thought the situation through, running the numbers in his head. "If we can draw away the six thousand inside the city, the home guard can head the west and attack from the rear."

"My thoughts exactly, sir. Draw them away, maybe not even all of them. Just a bulk of the numbers and just long enough so the home guard can regroup. We'll need to gather a sizeable force on our side of the blockade if we're going to go on the offensive. Problem is we're spread thin and the mutates are all over the city. And for some reason..."

She paused uncertainly and frowned in consternation.

"What?"

"They don't get distracted, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"We've tried explosions, light bombs, but they don't seem to notice. We've tried just about everything." 

"Okay." Adam nodded to himself. _Not everything._ He knew what he had to do. "And my friends?"

"They were on the front lines when the mutates attacked. Internal communications were the first to fall after the mutates started pouring out of the caves so we have no way of knowing if anyone managed to slip back to the city, though I doubt it. "

"I see." He stared at the gates and at the men and women huddled behind the wall-walk, shooting at the pressing horde. "And the Seven?"

"Three on this side, four outside the blockade. Of the three in the city, one came to the castle to drive out the invaders. He should still be inside. The other two are near the western caves; they've got a wall set up around the caves to seal the exits. We'd have a lot more mutates without that wall."

Adam forced himself to smile and looked away. "Thank you, Captain. Find a way to reach the other contingents in the city so you can regroup and attack the western front. I'll draw the mutates away."

"Sir?" Captain Swift stared at him blankly. "You're not—how would you—?"

"I'll figure it out."

Before she could think to stop him, Adam cast a fortification spell on his legs and leapt over the outer wall, relishing the mix of magic and adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Hold the line!” he yelled at the castle defenders, who roared and cheered as he soared overhead.

"Magnus!" he heard them cry out. "Magnus! Magnus!"

Again, he spun in the air, this time using his sword to channel a Kinetic spell, unleashing gales sharp enough to blow back the swarm. A rain of bullets and energy blasts whizzed past him from the arrow slits and crenellations in the curtain wall, helping him clear a landing.

"Come!" he snarled at the mutates. Arms reached up and clawed at the air as the crowd shrieked and trampled over each other to get to him.

He landed heavily on bare feet and swung his sword in a wide arc to trigger another Kinetic spell. An invisible force held back their advance for just a moment, buying him time. Quickly, he used his left thumb to draw a sigil on his forehead, and then surged forward into the crowd while he chanted the words to petition Solomon his Crown.

He wielded his sword one-handed, swinging it inexpertly in expansive movements that corrected subtly to parry and cut through flesh. The balance felt different from his knives and it was heavy and clunky but with magic powering his arms and shoulders, he carved his path easily enough. With his other hand, he layered on defensive spells over his skin and eyes, dodging and Pushing back anyone who got too close to his left side. He could see them piling around him, closing in, but they were such simple creatures that his Crown easily predicted their trajectories. Their blood gushed out in sprays, soaking his face and clothes, and he only vaguely noticed that it was black. Their smell pressed on him like a living thing, insinuating itself and invading his nose with that heavy, sickening sweetness.

Adam yelled as he twisted and spun in a full circle, leaping overhead again. _This is why it didn’t work_ , he thought, as he made a cylinder with his left hand and blew out a column of fire to clear out another path. He sprinted again, leaping over charred remains and cutting down limbs that tried to get at him. _This is why Teddy’s psychological magic didn’t work on you. You’re not human anymore._

The mutates rushed at him but their fingers slipped harmlessly off his skin—thank fuck for Gauss' Slip Shield; he returned with his sword and his magic, burning, freezing, hacking indiscriminately. He used his sword poorly, he knew, swinging wildly from his shoulder in wasteful and tiring strikes, but they were pressing in so close that it didn't really matter. He was raging with power and sorrow—and he could almost feel it like a true flame, burning inside him—and the only important thing was that he was cutting something down.

Amid the carnage of broken pillars and uprooted brick, bodies littered the streets: Genoshans and mutates huddled together in unceremonious and undiscriminating piles, torn open and missing limbs. Some of the canals had been broken too, spilling sewage water into the cobbled Genoshan streets, and in some places, the filth pooled around his feet and rose to his ankles, although that might also just be mutate blood. Most of the buildings seemed intact—if a little pocked and worn out with soot—but some had been reduced to rubble.

Adam's thoughts turned briefly of Tommy, of what he would think once he saw what had become of his beloved city. The thought of it stabbed at him and he muttered a curse.

He injected another shot of Fortification magic in his legs and leapt forward with a cry. He wasn't quite flying, no, but almost, toes sliding across the ground as he glided; he danced across the brick and asphalt of the ancient streets, laughing and crying, his feet skidding, barely touching, as he tore through the crowd. He felt invincible; he was a madness and a calamity as was the nature of every true mage. Yet even in his grief and wrath, he knew it was futile. He had jumped in the fray without a plan and his spells wouldn't last forever. How would he distract them? All he could do was delay the inevitable. At least the horde outside the castle followed him. A bulk of that, at least. It was hard to tell. Maybe it was enough to turn the tide for Captain Swift's contingent and maybe that would give them the odds to push back. It was time that they needed, time to regroup, to gather what remained of Genosha's defenses so they could stage one last stand and drive out the invasion.

Too many maybe's all depending on the success of his recklessness, yet all leading to the same fate for him.

 _My Adam Thorne,_ that voice murmured to him again. And for a moment, his vision blurred. _I won't let you die._

Something shifted in his brain, some nebulous instinct crystallizing into purpose— _no_ , it was more than that: it was something trying to take over but still too feeble, still too disperse; Adam took its purpose and pushed the voice back, down, down, down, into the abyss, where he had long locked it away.

He had to draw them away, he remembered, as everything came back into focus. Away from the castle, the city. He danced with renewed vigor, side-stepping, sprinting, even teleporting when necessary; he thought they were mindless husks, that they would follow him in droves if he put up a good fight, if he gave them live bait. But whatever force it was that controlled them, he wasn't fooling it the least bit. Few mutates peeled away from their groups and they only gave chase for a few blocks before turning back.

He needed another approach. He had to override the control. If he could figure out how they were being controlled, he could hack the system and override the commands. Maybe even shut the whole thing down.

With hardly a thought, he reprogrammed Solomon's Crown, diverting the bulk of the processing power to analysis of the mutate mob. He leapt up in the air, soaring over lamp posts, and looked over the churning swarm beneath him. The Crown could detect something rippling amongst them—not magic, not even a mutant or Inhuman power, but something else entirely, something it couldn't immediately name, though it tasted simple and mundane. He could feel it now too, even without the aid of the Crown, if he focused hard enough.

There! He could almost see it hiding underneath the ambient energies in the air. Not radio... not acoustic... not even magnetic... What was it? Plasmonic? Electromagnetic?

Then, as he landed back on the ground, he recognized the feel of it and he let out a sudden laugh. He should have seen it sooner. It was his power after all—though admittedly the weakest and least developed.

An electric field. Always the simplest answer.

 _Makes sense, I guess_ , he thought.  _Direct interfacing with the nervous system._

He flexed his fingers to get a sense of the waveform, feel its shape, its transformations. He cocked his head to one side and frowned. The pattern was all over the place, shifting haphazardly without any discernible sense or rhythm.

"Too fast," he muttered to himself, as he tried and failed to hack the field—no,  _fields_. Plural. Multiple sources: overlapping, overriding, correcting, optimizing. He could nullify one and another would quickly take its place. If he had the time, he might have been able to crack it with some decryption spells. 

 _Well, shit._ There was no way he could immobilize the mutates this way. He waved a hand and made a Pushing gesture to slow them down.  _Fuck._

He looked around and saw Genoshan troops hiding in the buildings, raining a cacophony of bullets, magic, and powers to stave off the unassailable legion. It was a daunting sight to watch, for no matter how many times they fell and how many limbs they lost, the mutates pressed on with deranged ferocity.

 _Bait_ , Adam concluded as he leapt back and put some distance between him and the horde.  _I don't have to shut them down. I just have to draw them away._  He lowered his hand and released the Push.  _I_ _just have to be the bait._

"Cover me!" he shouted at the Genoshans, who cheered and fired a volley of projectiles with renewed force.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "You can do this. Just intermittent bursts. As far as you can."

He closed his eyes and pulled the gathering charges into his chest, where he imagined them compressing into a ball. He fed it as many sparks as he could until it grew white-hot and began pushing back. Then, once it wouldn't take anymore charges, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Okay. Here we go."

Slowly, in his head, he pictured the sphere moving... up his chest... through his throat... and out his head.  His scalp prickled and his hair stood on end as the imagined orb passed through his skull and rested about a foot above him.

He brought his hands before him and braced himself. "As random as you can. As far as you can throw." 

With a sudden inhale, he clicked his fingers and cracked the sphere—not too big, just a tiny fissure—and the charges rushed out in a buzzing torrent, creating a rapidly shifting electric field that interfered with the fields controlling the mutates.

"Here!" he yelled at them as he sprinted and threw himself back in the fray, the sphere following above him. With a twist of his free hand, he magnified its visual effect with a conjuration of photons, blinking madly like strobe lights.  "Come over here, you fuckers!"

Something shifted in the air and he knew at once that it worked. The mutates swayed on their feet, growing docile and confused for a moment before turning their attention on him.

 _Good,_ he thought, as he cut his way through the growing mob. With a quick twist of free hand, he restored the Crown's defensive functions.  _Now I've got your attention._

"Come at me!"

He made it a few blocks towards the city center before one caught him by the hair, the only part of him that his spells couldn’t protect. His own acceleration pulled against his scalp and he screamed at the sudden tearing.

With a cry, he grabbed the mutate’s wrist and used his sword to shear off his hair. Then he dropped the weapon and after a quick series of two-handed Forms, slammed a hand to the ground and sang out the Hope of Orpheus. Butterflies of light erupted around him and rushed skyward, eating away everything in a radius of a few yards. Blood—his blood, this time—poured down his face, coating his eyes and mouth, though he had long been so crusted in black that it hardly made a difference at this point. He panted for the few minutes that his spell bought him and checked that his confounding electric field was still going strong.

To anyone in the city, it would look like a beacon of light, which might even draw the rest of the mutates to him. _Good._  But to the Seven— _The Six soon_ , he thought numbly—they would know that their Heir Supreme had returned and that he was down in the city, risking his life, the Supremacy, and all of magic.

And true enough, as soon as the Hope of Orpheus had run its course, he saw, outlined in the sky, two figures hurtling towards him. Groaning, he picked up his sword and turned the flat of the blade towards them. He felt the force of a spell making contact, jarring his arm like a battering ram and pushing him a few feet back. Another Forced-Castling, probably, but he’d expected that.

The mutates closed in around him again but he paid them no heed. Keeping his eyes trained at Kostja and Neha, he strode forward, slashing his way through easily. They lobbed more spells at him—variations of Castling, Lullabies, even an n-order Spatial Shift—but he dismantled the Forms at the same time their tiny hands twisted to make them; their fingers flashed with monstrous speed as they unleashed a barrage of magic, quick and relentless like bullets, and their spells grew more violent and desperate with each failed attempt.

Finally, with a simple Geometric Thermogenesis, Kostja hurled a comically gigantic ball of fire at the mutates to burn a wide swath of open space. As soon as he and Neha had touched ground, the girl clapped her hands and erected a partially permeable dome, pushing away everyone except the three mages in its interior.

Adam watched the two kids, his left hand clenching and unclenching to his side, fingers spell-ready, as he held up his sword in front of him. He eyed the mutates as well, even as they pressed against the barrier and slammed their fists against the invisible wall, lapping like an angry tide. Whatever they were now, it was clear they used to be human. Men. Women. Even children. They frothed at the mouth and their bloodshot eyes swiveled madly in their wide sockets. But it was their veins that made them so horrific: deep black lines that cracked their necks and faces, splitting open to weep black blood. And always, that hideous shrieking, as though they were in constant pain.

Kostja and Neha studied them too—but only in darting glances. Their small childish eyes were cold and academic and they left their faces carefully blank but their fear betrayed itself in how they pressed against each other, leaning away from the clamoring horde. They looked exhausted and spent and their yellow and red robes were now frayed and ripped. Adam could smell the touch of Teddy's psychological magic about them; though he couldn't identify its exact nature, he reckoned, it was meant to protect their minds from the shocks and traumas of war. 

“Heir Supreme,” Neha said quietly. “Please return to the castle.”

 _Teddy's dying_ , Adam wanted to say. _House Sutanto has fallen._

But he didn’t. He couldn’t afford them distracted. Not now. Besides, that might shatter Teddy's protection.

“Your spells can’t protect you forever,” Kostja said. “Please. Go back.”

“No,” Adam said firmly.

“Teddy will be—”

“No,” he said again, his voice only breaking a little. “This is my home and I’m fighting.”

"Neha," he heard Kostja whisper. "The sword. It's soul-forged. I can still smell the Consecration." The boy stared warily at his weapon, a restraining hand wrapping around the other child's arm. "Heir Supreme, what have you done to yourself?"

Neha gave an almost imperceptible nod and bit her lip. "It's incomplete. Tether's still tenuous."

"Yeah, I know, I'm not blind. But this is the Heir Supreme we're talking about and—"

Suddenly, with a speed that surprised both Adam and Kostja, Neha fired another spell. It had been too quick to read what it was, even with Solomon's Crown, but Adam's reflexes had been sped up too. With hardly a conscious thought, he turned his sword at just the right angle and at just the right moment and instead of simply dissolving the hex, he deflected it back to its source. Neha fell to her knees with a sharp cry, wrists slamming together and fingers interlacing in a grotesque mockery of a prayer.

Adam shifted his stance a little and turned his attention on Kostja. "I'm going," he said. "Take it down, Kostja."

"Heir Supreme." The boy's lips trembled as he spoke but he lifted his hands before him, anyway, fingers already bent in what appeared to be the beginning of a particularly nasty spell. Adam couldn't help but admire the bravery.

"Kostja."

"I can't allow—"

“I don’t have time for this.”

Striding briskly, Adam advanced on the boy. Kostja fired spell after spell at him but with this sword, Adam was untouchable.

"What the hell is that?!" the boy shrieked, falling back a few steps even as he kept on the offensive. Even pressed back, his casting never strayed from the crisp precision of his formal training, his hands making such impossible contortions with fingers that could have only been broken in during the flexibility of early childhood.

"Kostja," Adam said once he'd reached him. He knelt in front of the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Stop this," he added softly. "Please."

"That sword. You didn't have to do this to yourself! Why did you—?" Kostja stared at him, eyes wide with fear. "What happened?"

Adam squeezed they boy's shoulder and sighed. "Listen to me, Kostja," he said in a harsh whisper. "Go back." He stared into the boy's eyes and said, slowly but firmly: "You are just kids."

"I can't just—how did you get that sword? What happened? Who—" Something flitted over his eyes and for a second, the color shifted, flashing blue to green as an alien presence grazed the surface of Adam's mind.

"Kostja!" He pushed back immediately, feeling something violent inside him stir against the intrusion. "Stop!"

"Teddy?" Kostja said in a high-pitched voice. "That's not possi—no." He shook his little head, soft wisps of hair swaying. "No, no, no. You're lying. No. You're trying to trick me!"

Adam shifted his hand to the side of the boy's neck. "Kostja. Please. Just this once. Listen to me. Let me protect you."

He waited for a response but the boy only stared back. 

"He's just nine," Kostja said softly. He paused again and his face crumpled. "He's our youngest."

"I know." Adam's eyes fell to the ground. "Now, please," he said, his voice taking on a surprising gentleness. "Go to him. You can still save him. I can't but maybe you and Neha can."

Kostja stared at him for a while longer, as though he wanted to say something. Finally, he dragged his forearm over his eyes and nodded. He turned away and with an easy snap of his fingers, shattered the shield.

Adam watched the boy touch Neha's shoulder and float away. "Be careful!" he called after them. For a moment, he stood still and simply watched their forms climb the sky, ignoring the shrieking mutates rushing in on him.

 _Teddy..._  the thought returned to him, as the world turned red again.  _Why couldn't you have just stayed out it?_

He roared as he brought down his sword and cleaved off an arm. His face was wet with blood and tears, all mingling in a sticky mess, but he pressed on. He could feel the sword binding itself to him, could feel it reaching out to his soul, fracturing it, grasping for purchase, and he accepted it without protest. He allowed it in, assimilating its cold soul until he could feel the slide of lacerated flesh across the blade as though it were a part of him, an extension of his arm; if he focused, he could even taste the flesh and blood coating the metal. His shoulder began to burn from the exertion, throbbing as keenly as if the bone had been wrenched from the socket, but he drowned out the pain with violence and rage. He sliced and hacked and stabbed, slaughtering his way through the relentless mob.

_I am Adam Thorne. And this is what I'm made for._

With a spell, he reinforced his legs and arms. He redoubled his efforts and dashed eastward, his electric field still sputtering out nonsense waveforms to confound the mutates' network. They followed him away from the city, like rats to a piper, screaming and frothing and grasping, though they barely scratched him. The Twin Cliffs rose in the east just some distance away, casting their shadows over the city's edge.

If he could just make it there, through the gorge between them and then... then... then what? What would he do? How was that plan supposed to end?

 _Adam Thorne, Adam Thorne_ , another voice sang in his head.  _You are a creature of fear._

“It’s your fault!” he yelled at the crowd, surging forward as he felled eight with a single stroke. "You did this!"

He could feel his defensive spells beginning to fray. The wear and tear began with his feet, with his uncovered soles splitting open from the impact against asphalt, and then it spread to his arms and back, which were bleeding now from the persistent clawing. He ignored the pain and leapt forward again, channeling even more strength to his thighs. Even the Crown was fading now, and he could no longer evade the relentless assault.

_You have kept me asleep for too long, Adam Thorne. Denied me for so long._

"Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

With a loud fizzle, one of his spells broke and a fist connected with his rib with an audible crack. He stumbled to the side of the cliff and threw up blood. With a snarl, he turned back and swung his sword to push back the line. "Fuck!" he cried out loud as he fumbled through a quick kinetic pulse. He turned back to the gorge and raced forward again into the narrow pass, half-limping, half-running, carried by the fumes of magic in his legs. He held his side with his left hand, easing the stab of broken ribs.

 _You did this!_  he thought, as he turned and summoned a fork of lightning. It passed through the closest mutate and arced through the group behind her, burning down dozens in a single strike.

"You did this," he said, aloud this time, and stopped. He turned back and stared into the cleft between the cliffs. He panted for a few seconds, recovering for just a moment, and then trudged onwards into the shadows.

Once he was safely inside the pass, he ran off in a dead sprint. The sphere was already guttering out its last few sparks so he shifted his focus to feeding it more charges. He hadn't used his electrokinesis this much in years and it was taking a toll on both his concentration and his body. Fortunately, the mutates were still following him and the sounds of their indignant shrieking grew closer as they closed in on him. He ran, despite the burn in his lungs and the protests of his legs, skipping over rocks and vaulting over boulders. The gorge's opening was just up ahead, only a few yards away now, when the Crown finally sputtered out and a wayward root caught his foot. He skidded and rolled in the mud, cutting open his arms and legs with sharp stones and broken seashells, and, faster than he'd anticipated, there were hands on him. They fell on him in a pile, grabbing his arms and legs and pounding his back with their fists.

_Adam Thorne, you are made of fear and despair._

"Shut up!" he screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

Another burst of magic. A searing blue light filled the gorge, incinerating everyone but him. The shrieking vanished, replaced instead by a ringing in his ears, and after that faded too, there was nothing but the sound of his own heavy breathing. He looked up and, with both relief and despair, saw the electric sphere, still dutifully doing its job. The mutates would come back soon enough.

 _I can give you hope_ , the voice said quietly.

"No," Adam said, climbing back to his feet. With a lurch, he fell back to the ground and threw up. When he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, it came away black. "I don't need you."

He crawled forward on all fours. He was almost there. He could hear the crash of waves, taste the salt in the air. Behind him, the mutates were filling into the pass again, climbing, trampling over each other as they raced for him. He reckoned he had a few minutes before they reached him.

He could pull off another big spell—maybe two—and he'd still have enough juice to teleport himself to safety. Maybe he could draw away as much of them as he could through the gorge and collapse the Twin Cliffs to trap them. 

"Okay," he muttered as he finally reached the edge of the sea. He brought the point of his sword to the water, just breaking the surface. "I can do this."

His left hand twisted the Forms over the pommel, which glowed blue

"Three planar force fields to define a triangular prism, length extruded up," he said to himself as he laid down the vector equations to define the planes. He was regressing, he knew, back to his earlier days with Strange, when he sounding out his processes to help him focus his magic. It was the mark of a juvenile mage but he felt no shame for it; he had to define everything right or he might not make it out. "With this pommel, I establish a frame of reference." His hand was still bleeding from where Ted had bitten him so he pressed the wound on the rounded knob and bloodied the metal.

"And with this,—" He took a step forward and a sharp pain shot up the leg, traveling up his spine. He collapsed to the ground with a panicked cry, his magic snapping back to him with vicious recoil. He gasped at the shock of agony, his chest arching up in shock.  

"Oh god, not now,"he said, as he dragged himself to the closest boulder and sat up with a hiss; it felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to his spine. "Dammit!"

In the distance, he could see the mutates fast approaching. And as he ran through the possible spells in his head, panic turned slowly to fear, then to despair, and then, finally, to resignation.

_My Adam Thorne. You are made of fear._

“Your fault,” he said as he let out something that was half a sob, half a laugh. He felt so tired and so old, so done fighting. “All your fault.”

 _And I am hope incarnate._

He watched them gain ground on him and knew that he could do nothing to stop them. He might have cast another spell, swung his ridiculous sword one more time, but in the end, it was all so pointless. Interminable striving. Inevitable death.

 _You get hurt and you die_ , Teddy's voice echoed in his head. _I saw what happens._

Impossibly, the pain intensified, and it was so overwhelming that he screamed and his hands closed into fists, fingernails digging deep into the injured flesh. 

"One more..." he mumbled, once the torment lifted a little. "I can do one more." But he was too delirious with pain to construct a cogent thought, much less execute the mathematics of a spell.

_I can give you hope, my Adam._

He ignored the voice and listened instead to the sound of the sea: the water crashing against sand and stone, the wind blowing through his hair in gentle heaves. _Somewhere_ , he thought to himself, _somewhere out there... there's a boy who once loved me._

"Fuck this." He smiled to himself and shook his head. He reached for the glass vial pressing on his chest and held it in his hand. "I'm not gonna die here."

He took a deep breath and groaned. Then, he lifted his hands before him.

"No fucking way. Teleportation spell. Nine equations. One vector. Easy-peasy. Come on, you can do this."

He endured his leg and spine and powered through the spell. His hands trembled and the Forms were sloppy but they should do the trick. He needed a place, somewhere he could see for an easy trajectory, and as he lifted his eyes, he caught a figure sitting on a nearby boulder, arms wrapped around one leg while the other fell to the side to skim the water with its foot.

"You," Adam mumbled, fingers freezing between Forms. "Now? Seriously?!"

 **Awake. Awake now** , the Faketriot said, lolling its head bonelessly.

"After this, I'm going to hunt you down and send you back to whatever hellish pit of madness you crawled out of."

 **Fear. Deflection. Waking. Breaking.** It paused, leapt over to Adam and leaned over, bringing down its face so it was only inches from his. **Fracture.** **Almost... Almost there...**

It laid its gloved hand on forehead and pressed.  **Wake up!**

Adam screamed again. The pain in his leg returned and exploded through his skeleton—legs, spine, arms, skull, even his ribs felt so broken, every breath was a stab.

"What did you—" He cried out again. Too much. Too much pain in talking. He felt like he would die from just the weight of it.

**He's here... Listen... Listen... Adam Thorne.**

"Fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking—"

**He wakes.**

And there it was: clear as a bell. He heard it. Softly at first, gathering, and then, abruptly, a desperate wailing. He recognized it immediately, the jarring, unforgiving way it pounded against his chest—the voice he had spent so long running away from. It sang to him now, sickly sweet with desperation, screaming for release like sirens calling.

**He wakes.**

_Let me fight_ , it murmured, echoing Adam's words back at him. _Free_ _me and see what wondrous things I can sing._

“Your fault,” Adam whispered back. “All your fault.”

 _No_.

“All your fault.”

 _I am not the enemy, my Adam Thorne,_ it said in a rising voice.

“You are.” He was sleepy. So sleepy. The dark called to him and he could feel himself succumbing to its oily embrace. His body hurt and the mutates were almost on him. Teleportation. Had to trigger it now. “Teddy's going to die because of you.”

_I am Hope given form. Living Wish._

For a long moment, it was quiet, only the relentless hammering against his flesh, his own magic attempting to take over. He didn’t know how long he could stand the pain, how he would manage to finish the spell; it felt like he was being ground to a pulp.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on the rest of the spell, but it slipped from him, like water through fingers.

_I remember now._

“You remember?” he asked dumbly, already feeling lightheaded.

 _Yes_.

A burst of energy in his chest and a sudden fear gripped Adam, a fear deeper than death, a fear that came when the very soul was under siege. He felt Chaos tearing through him, ripping him apart. It gushed through his nerves, relentless like river water and bearing down like a yellow sun, knitting muscle and bone and skin and dispelling all pain. A fierce wind blew around him and he felt his body swayed, as though cradled by rolling waves of a golden field.

 _I have been dreaming for so long_ , it said, no longer nebulous and whispery but in a high voice, one filled with the power to move reality.

Adam’s eyes flew open and he saw the world in a new light. He felt heat pouring out of his skin, heat that felt like sunlight, scorching, purifying. “No. Stop. Stop...” he mumbled.

_I was dreaming... but I am awake now._

"Who are you?" he asked fearfully, as it finally took over and banished him to the dark. He felt his legs bending under him, pushing him up.

_I remember._

And the cage shut around him.

A glowing hand—his own hand, he realized—lifted in front of him and, without a single Form, released a bolt of energy towards the darkness between the cliffs. His legs moved again and his sword returned to his hand.

"Who are you?" he asked again. His lips barely responded to him now and his voice came out softer than a whisper.

_I am he who created himself._

He felt his body turn to face the sea and for a moment—for one jealous, _impossible_ moment—his feet left the earth and he thought he was flying. His spine arched as he fell back, toes burying in the pebbles. He felt magic burst forth in a flash of blue light.

_Sleep, my Adam Thorne._

"Who are you?" Adam managed to say as the last piece of him finally dissipated.

He watched helplessly as his body bent down to touch the surface of water with a glowing finger. He turned his head to stare at the mutates pouring out of the gorge and grinned.

 _I am Billy Kaplan_ , the voice said in the privacy of his head.

The sea flew up and split in two.

“And I am awake.”


	14. Both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I experimented a little with the style for the first part of this chapter, to match the psychological break, so it may seem disjointed and disoriented. This was supposed to be a part of a longer chapter but I realized it could stand on its own. An early chapter to make up for the long breaks! :)

Running… running… running…

Fumbling, slipping, tripping over sand and stone.

The world unfolded before him in broken pieces.

An ocean split in half: two walls of water that reached for the sky, foisted by a veined network of kinetic spells that glittered silver against the black waters.

More images in fragments:

The mutate horde chasing him towards the depths of the ocean floor.

(Chasing _them_? No.  _Him_. There’s only one of them, one of _him_ ; they were the same person. He had to remember that.)

The ocean’s scent diluting the saccharine stench, purifying salt.

Sand and stone crumbling beneath his feet.

Had the world always been so quiet?

 _No._ Not quiet. There was screaming. A million souls crying out in anguish.

Pebble and shell bit into his feet, drawing blood; he left footprints in the sand, iron-sharp odor in his wake. A forest of sharp corals slashed his skin. More blood.

He kept running.

Running and running and running.

He barely felt his wounds.

Lost… so, so lost… his feet brought him nowhere… everywhere. Beneath him, the world tilted and spun.

He gripped his sword and something inside the metal reached for him and gripped back, a part of him answering, holding his breaking mind together with its infant fingers—but only barely.

He leapt off a cliff and plummeted to the abyss.

 _Whoosh._  The sound of wind filling his ears as he fell.  _Whoosh._

Deeper… deeper… deeper… falling to the cold and pitch-black darkness.

Like Orpheus descending to the still heart of the underworld.

Black.

Black.

Black.

They fell after him. Screeching something he couldn't hear anymore.

He kept running. Slid, slipped, tumbled.

The glass vial bounced on his chest. His old name. Thud, thud, thud, like a second heartbeat. Insistent. Undeniable. Inevitable.

Something caught his arm, and spun him around. A snarling face upon, just inches from his, black-veined, skin split open weeping sludge. Jaws unhinged like a snake.

It shrieked a long note, held in pain. He waved a a hand and with perfect calmness, responded with a whisper:

**Die.**

Then: a bright light. A heartbeat’s stillness.

A deafening roar! Thunder became substance.

_Boom!_

A shockwave. Then, silence.

Kinetic spells breaking, crumbling away like spent ash.

An ocean collapsed.

Pressure. Liquid forcing, bursting, its way into his lungs. His mouth filled with water, his eyes and eardrums crushed by an outraged sea. His body flew away, thrown around like a limp doll. Chaos magic wound through him like adamantium threads, stitching bone and muscle and skin. A protective shell enclosing.

He slammed against a boulder. _No_ , _too much!_ Another roar with the impact. If he had breath, it would have been torn out of him.

His protections cracked.

—A break!—A moment!—

Something shifted in the balance of powers. He seized the moment of shock and wrested for control.

 _His_ body! _His_ mind! _His_ _soul_!

He pulled.

Black, again.

Black. Black. Black.

Tossed around and beaten back by the collision of sea and earth.

He crashed on the floor, flattened by the ocean’s weight.

The other one was pulling back—but only feebly, losing grasp.

He cried out and broke through with a panicked, noiseless gasp.

Pulling… still pulling. He could feel their— _his_ heart now, pounding in his chest.

He gritted his teeth and forced the words out of his mouth:

 **Let**. **Me. Go!**

A crack of thunder. The world stilled and then something latched on his chest like an anchor and pulled. His body surged upwards. Water dragged his limbs and his face flattened against his skull. His joints were on fire—shock-white pain—and he tried to scream but no words came out. He burst out of the sea, limbs flinging forward.

Blue and white. Somewhere else, red and a smudge of black. The wind whipped past him, his back arching, limbs spasming violently now. Beneath him, black and blue, spinning and roiling and swelling like mountains.

A gasp and a heave: salt water expelled with violent force.

Gravity reasserting. He fell.

He opened his mouth, tried to scream again. “Get out!” It came out a gargle.

 _My sword!_ he thought frantically. _Where’s my sword!_

A hand—his own, he realized—grabbed his throat and squeezed.

Tumbling in the air, legs tangling. His free hand clawed at his forearm, nails digging, drawing more blood. The wind rushed up around him, drowning all sounds.

More fragments: sky and sea and fire and earth, all mixed up.

“Get out of my head! he shrieked.

The other one slipped again. He’s almost free…

Blue and white and red and black, spinning, spinning. Where was he?

Another clap of thunder—no, the crack of the sound barrier breaking—far away.

Something crashed on him— _hard_ —wrapped around his arms and his torso, restraining them.

“No!” _Not again, no, no, no._ “Get off me!”

He thrashed, tried to break away.

“My sword! My sword!” he cried out.

A voice spoke in response, words all broken up. “…stop…” Crackling. The smell of blood. “…me… over… stop.”

Vertigo. And the world disintegrated in fragments once again.

Red and silver. All a blur.

He screamed and dumped magic in his hands. He slammed his hands against the thing holding him and felt something solid under his fingers. He felt the material crumple, screeching like metal.

"Get off!" He began ripping, clawed hands swiping and grabbing at everything he could reach.

“…hold…down! I can’t...get…the…can’t…hurry… seizing!”

A voice. It sounded familiar.

“…up!”

Red and silver and blue behind. Everything spinning.

His hands failed and dropped to his sides, suddenly shaking. All magic gone like a candle flame snuffed of life.

“…on…this…please…me”

Seconds… Minutes… He kept struggling against his iron prison.

A gust of wind, then the world trembled, as though shaken to its very core.

He closed his eyes and gasped.

 

Green...

A weight descended around him, a force pressing in close, but he didn’t think to fight it. It was warm and familiar and… _right._

Green...

He was floating, battered and storm-tossed and broken in pieces like a ship-wreck making its way to the ocean floor, and there was nothing but darkness around him.

He felt alone, so, so alone, until that green presence washed over him with its familiar warmth. It stretched itself around him like an embrace and gathered the shattered pieces of him, holding them together until they fused and he was whole again.

Just him. Just one of him again.

 _Come back,_ it said as it drifted away from him. And he followed its trail up from the depths of his broken mind.

_Come back to me._

He swam up, towards the light and the warmth above him, until he felt himself breaking through the surface.

And suddenly, there was the sun on his face.

He focused on the weight of that warmth, shifting around him now, until it pooled around his cheeks, where it became solid and real.

“Okay… you’re… here…got… Come on… on…”

Colors reforming… Red and silver, restraining him in its—his… arms?

Arms. It was a person…

 _Iron Lad_.

 

Something clicked in his head and the world reformed. Shapes redefined themselves and colors disentangled and reoriented to discrete geometries.

He looked up and saw blue.

He paused and took a breath.

 _Blue_ …

The sky above him was blue.

There was a sound—the crash of wave against stone—followed by sudden wetness on his face, a stinging saltiness that had sprayed and rained over him.

He shivered and blinked a few times, as though he had just woken up and he was trying to clear away the dullness of sleep.

 _I'm alive_ , he thought, relieved.

Beneath him, the ground was a solid presence, firm and wet and real. There were arms around him too—Iron Lad's—still carefully holding him back and in front of him, Tommy was kneeling, his whole frame trembling and glowing green.

Minutes passed and all Adam could do was stare as he steadied his breathing. Tommy had a faraway look to his face: lips parted and eyes shifting between green and blue and black as his pupils dilated and constricted. A low steady hum emanated from his throat.

And that warmth that had sought out Adam and made him whole again were his brother's hands resting on his cheeks, warm and rough and scarred and yet filled with so much tenderness, cradling his face like something fragile and precious.

“Tommy,” Adam found himself saying, only the voice came out of them both—not as two voices in unison, but a singular one.

And right there, in that moment, it was the most tender sound in the world.

Then, in the space of a heartbeat, that connection between them broke and they both turned to one side and threw up.

“You’re okay,” Iron Lad said, still holding him. Another crashing sound, followed by that spray. The boy's shoulder and arms crackled, exposed and bleeding where Adam had torn off his armor. “You’re okay. I got you.”

It still wasn’t right. The world was still blurred. Adam touched his face and felt for his glasses, which now rested askew on his nose. One of the lenses had been broken and a shard was digging into the flesh near his left cheekbone. He picked it out gingerly and flicked it away And as he did so, his hand brushed against the chain around his neck.

With a sudden cry, he scrambled back, grabbed the necklace, and flung it away. He watched the glass vial fly a short distance and bounce against a rock. It fell to the ground with a muted thud.

“I—I’m sorry,” Adam said as he leaned away from both of them, eyes darting everywhere.

“It’s okay,” the Iron Lad said, reaching slowly for him, not unlike how one would reach for a wounded, feral animal. “I got you.”

A rational part of Adam knew what was happening, that he was panicking and in shock and that Iron Lad was not going to hurt him, so he held on to that knowledge as fiercely as he could, even though everything else in him was screaming at him to get up and run. He kept still, taking deep breaths.

The first touch was difficult. Just fingers skittering lightly over his skin... then closing firmly around his wrist. He was breathing hard, trying to remember that Iron Lad was a friend. A part of him noted that the boy's hand was bleeding.

“I was so scared,” he managed to say in-between shallow breaths. He looked to his side and saw Tommy watching him closely with those strange eyes of his. “It was so dark. And so cold.”

“You got them, Adam.” Iron Lad placed a hand between his shoulder blades and drew him closer. “It’s all right,” he said, rubbing his back. “You’re all right. I got you.”

Adam leaned into him and let his forehead fall against the boy’s shoulder. He shuddered and sighed, relaxing into the touch.

A few minutes passed and no one dared to say a word. Adam listened to the sound of the winds and the waves—storeys tall, crashing noisily against the Twin Cliffs and flooding the gorge. Somewhere far away was the unmistakable hum of a spell, punctuated by gunshot and that interminable shrieking. He focused on the smell of the ocean, its sharp tang, mixing with the sourness of sweat from Iron Lad and Tommy. The ground beneath him was soft and loamy and a little grassy. They must be on one of the Cliffs.

He took slow deep breaths to calm himself but he didn’t dare close his eyes. There was darkness there, he knew, where something terrible lurked, and he shivered at the thought of being broken again, of being fractured into two people simultaneously.

 _I am Adam,_ he thought to himself.  _I am Adam. I am Adam. I am Adam._

Moments passed. Minutes, maybe hours, and he was glad they couldn’t see his face, frozen and wide-eyed with terror.

“Come on, baby brother,” Tommy finally said, his voice weak and raspy. Somewhere far away, Stature bellowed a thunderous roar. “Let's get you home.”

 

"Go ahead. I'll take care of this," Tommy said as Iron Lad gathered Adam in his arms and flew off.

Adam wanted to stay but he felt too weak to protest. So instead, he turned his head and rested his chin on Iron Lad's shoulder and looked back at his brother.

Tommy forced a grin (which dissolved halfway to a wince) and waved a hand, which Adam returned weakly. With a casual salute, Tommy turned back to the ocean, where the waves swelled and heaved like mountains. Adam felt a pang of guilt and felt thankful for the Twin Cliffs, which shielded the city from the tidal waves that his broken spell had unleashed. 

As they flew over Genosha, he saw the carnage beneath him: smoke and fire and flood, crumbling stone, dead bodies scattered like trash in the torn up streets. And underneath it all, that sickening sweet stench. There were still pockets of fighting in the city, but it seemed that the Genoshans had regained the upper hand; even from up high, he could see that they were winning: city forces were burning down the mutate horde and the few invading contingents of what looked like superpowered humans had already been surrounded and pushed back into buildings, where they were making their last stand.

There was a cry somewhere behind him, that somehow rippled through his chest, followed by a flash of heat behind his eyes.

 _Tommy_ , he thought, instinctively.

He turned back and saw his brother standing at the edge of the cliff, hands thrown forward and his whole body burning a brilliant green.

And just beyond him was the ocean and its monstrous waves, suddenly still and unmoving, as though frozen in time.

 

 _Entropy,_ Adam would think later, curled up in the safety of his room.  _Huh._ _The arrow of time._

There was something about that... something important that scratched at the back of his mind... and seeing Tommy on that cliff, with all the world suspended around him... it was like a puzzle piece had fallen in place.

The answer was there, just a little out of reach.

 _A shadow, Heir Supreme, a shadow,_ Sutan's chuckling voice rang in his head.  _What is memory but a shadow of time?_

And that part of him that itched, that part that knew that it was important, it knew that it all went back to the Ars Notoria _._

If only he could figure out how...


	15. The Boy who Lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of battle, old wounds are reopened and Adam Thorne goes through extreme lengths to save a life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: threats of rape. It begins immediately after "I'd like to see you try" and ends just before "The demon cupped its free breast".
> 
> A few things have happened recently in my personal life so I've been a little slow on the update and the mood has probably suffered too. Anyway, here's a new chapter. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Adam didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t.

_Wouldn’t._

Something stirred inside him, thrashing to get out and every time he closed his eyes, he could feel it clawing at the walls, scratching and trying to surface.

Nate had brought him to a suite, where a small infirmary had been set up. The attendant nurse—Mary? Terry? Cherry?—chattered ceaselessly as she patched him up, prattling on about the most frivolous things: her dreary Wisconsin life, how lucky she was that Max had found her before SHIELD did, oh he was from New York, was he? she had always wanted to go but had never had the time. He nodded and hmm-ed and smiled occasionally but when it became clear that she wouldn’t elicit anything more than that, they fell to an uneasy silence, with nothing but the rustle of bandages in his room and the muffled blast of gunfire down in the city.

She had to stitch the cut on his forehead, where a mutate had tried to rip off his hair, and another deep gash in his side which he hadn't even been aware of. But even the sharp bite of a needle piercing his skin or the suture threading through flesh didn’t break the fog that had settled over his thoughts.

A mutate horde… The Faketriot’s return…

Kaplan resurging…

Tommy and a frozen sea…

And then, there were Ted and Teddy, dying somewhere in the castle.

“You’re lucky,” the woman said at some point, and he had to fight the urge to sneer at her. “Some deep lacerations and contusions, but nothing's broken. The worst of it's the stab wound in your side.”

He nodded and grunted again, to which she responded with a sharp click of her tongue.

“Thank you,” he muttered, as soon as she had announced that she was done. Ignoring her protests, he pushed himself off the chair and crossed the room without sparing her another glance. He closed the door behind him but not before snagging a crystal bottle filled with something amber and alcoholic.

Outside, the hall was devoid of life, with nothing but puddles and scattered debris on the floor. He leaned against the door as he squeezed his eyes shut and drank straight from the bottle, relishing the pleasant burn down his throat. It was good stock, he could tell, probably befitting of royalty. A slight smokey taste with an aftertaste that he knew would linger for awhile. Too bad he never really cared for the hard stuff.

With a sigh, he dragged his feet forward and made his way carefully, side-stepping burnt carpet, shards of broken ceramic, and the occasional corpse. The air still held that abominable mutate sweetness but underneath that thick odor, it prickled with blood and ash and the excrement of the dead.

A few steps down and the dizziness hit him. The floor tilted dangerously and he had to stop several times and brace himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited for the vertigo to pass; each time, he reached automatically to his chest for the vial that was no longer there, waiting and taking deep breaths until the world righted itself again. And each time, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, fortified himself with a swig of whiskey, and plodded on.

The main infirmary was two floors down and all the way on the other side of the castle; he drifted through the empty halls and ruined corridors like a ghost—or perhaps, more appropriately, lumbering like a mutate (hah!). It took him nearly an hour in his slow, intermittent pace and when he finally arrived, he was panting and dripping sweat and his head was pounding with alcohol and exertion.

He leaned an arm against the door frame and looked inside. It was a large room fitted with a few dozen beds, separated by curtains and half-walls to give some modicum of privacy. The white glare of fluorescent lighting assaulted his eye and even as he stood outside, he could already feel that sort of quiet mania that pervaded the room.

The walls must have been spelled because the moment he stepped through the doors, the sounds of the outside world fell away, leaving a heavy silence punctuated by the beeping of machines and the quiet clatter of medical paraphernalia as doctors and nurses worked on the patients. The air was thick with the smell of iodine and alcohol but underneath that antiseptic veneer, he could still pick out the notes of blood and rot and death.

“Excuse me, sir,” a passing nurse muttered as he trudged down the aisle.

Adam proceeded slowly, careful not to sway too much on his feet lest someone think they should confine him to a bed too. Fortunately, there were other visitors milling around—some openly weeping, some laughing in relief, and a few frozen in shell-shocked quiet. Nobody paid him much attention.

“Over here,” a familiar voice called out and he was surprised to see that it was Nate, leaning against a windowsill by Teddy’s bed all the way down at the end of the ward.

“You should be sleeping,” the boy said as Adam sank in a nearby chair.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Nate nodded as though approving of the sentiment. He looked exhausted too; dark circles hung beneath his eyes and a weary slouch weighed down his shoulders. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his wrecked armor.

The sight of it triggered a memory, one only a few months old yet may as well be a lifetime away. Nate returning, dazzling red and silver through the air…  the boy who would be Kang, reappearing in the Sanctuaire Chamonix. Adam recalled the wariness and distrust that the boy had kept close around him, almost like a second armor—and yet, also there was that _hungriness_ to do good, to be saved.

And to be saved from what, exactly? From himself? His sins? How was he to repent for the things he hadn't even committed yet?

Now, looking at him in his broken armor, Adam was confronted once again with the awful truth that Nate was just a child, not much older than the Seven. Seventeen? No, eighteen now, probably; he remembered Cassie mentioning it a few weeks back. Still… He was young. So _so_ young. A kid playing dress-up for a world that wanted him to be something he didn’t want to be.

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” Adam said, nodding at the hole in Nate’s armor. “I wasn’t myself.”

Nate hummed absently and then, collecting himself, frowned.

“I’m sorry I stabbed you,” he said uncertainly. “I... was myself entirely.”

“Ah.” Despite himself, Adam smiled. He lifted one side of his shirt and displayed the stitches. “So this was you.”

The boy returned the smile and for a moment, Adam allowed himself to catch his breath. His eyes drifted to the windows and the sunset beyond, pink and orange spilling softly over the sky, pouring out of a red sun. It was so goddamn majestic and he hated it all the more for that.

_Who sent them? What did they want? What happened in those four days I wasn’t here? Why is the Faketriot back?_

The questions grappled and wrestled in his head, a dozen voices clamoring for attention, and his throat burned with the itch to give them voice. But when his gaze slipped towards Teddy’s sleeping in his bed, everything melted away.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he thought. _None of it fucking matters right now._

“How’s he doing?” he asked instead. He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his hair.

“Not well.”

He nodded as he took another swig of whiskey. He remembered the feeling of his finger lodged inside the boy’s neck… the blood… the gurgling… and then that final hideous silence. Now, Teddy slept, his small chest rising and falling under the blanket. He had an IV line in his arm and a breathing tube that went straight to his trachea through a hole in his throat, just beneath where an Adam's Apple would have been in the future. His hands and arms had been reset, pinned against plates to hold them in place; his fingers, especially, had suffered the brunt of the damage.

“He lost a lot of blood,” Nate continued. “They’re…” He paused and drew in a deep breath. “They’re not sure he’ll pull through.”

Adam nodded again and offered the boy the bottle, which he refused. Shrugging, he placed a hand on Teddy’s forehead and tried to reach inside, only to be rebuffed by one of the boy’s wards.  _A psychological mage_ , he winced as his mind recoiled with a sharp sting. Teddy’s mind was wrapped tightly like a cocoon. _Of course_.

“And Ted?”

“They couldn’t restore the tongue,” Nate said, rubbing his eyes. “But he’s awake. They’re treating him in his room. He's stable. But the doctor said no visitors for now.”

Adam sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“How about you?” Nate asked. “How are you doing? Really?”

“I’m all right,” Adam lied. He could smell the whiskey on his own breath and feel the heat pooling in his face. If he thought too much about the taste in his mouth, he could probably make himself retch too. “It hurts all over but I’m all right. This helps.” He lifted the bottle and gave it a little shake.

Nate didn’t say anything but went back to looking at Teddy.

“Why is this happening?” Adam asked softly. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? Why do they have to burn down my home?”

He buried his face in his hands and drew in a shuddering breath.

“Why do children have to go to war?”

A long pause.

“Fear makes people do bad—”

“But we haven’t done anything!” Adam snapped, his face twisting as he looked up abruptly to meet Nate’s eyes.

Something must have shown in his face, enough to startle Nate for a moment and give him pause.

“But you could. If you wanted to.” Nate dragged a chair beside him and sat down. “You could hurt them. You could tear the whole world down."

"But we wouldn't!" Adam insisted.

"It's not that you would, it's that you  _could._ And that makes you a threat to the world’s balance." Nate touched a series of hidden clasps around his wrists and dropped his gloves on the table. He gave Adam a meaningful stare. “This isn’t a perfect world, Adam. There’s poverty and disease and crime and all sorts of unfairness. But for most of us, we’re comfortable enough in our lives that we don’t want to change anything so fundamental in the world’s workings if it meant risking that comfort and security.” A pause. A frown wrinkled between his eyebrows. “You get that, right? Save the innocent. Preserve the law. Heroes fight to protect the world but no one actually wants to change it.”

Adam let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head at the familiar words.

“Maybe we need a new kind of hero,” he sneered. “Maybe what the world needs is a villain.”

Nate huffed out an amused chuckle. “This isn’t the sort of conversation superheroes should be having. Least of all the two of us,” he said, even as a thoughtful expression settled on his face. “Maybe we should team up. Kang the Conqueror and the Scarlet Heir. Let’s break the world so we can save it.”

"Burn the world!"

"So we can start anew."

They stared at each other for a long moment, imagining, considering.

What if?

A time traveller and a chaos mage... They were both immensely powerful beings. They could rule all of reality and refashion it in their own image. And who would stop them, really? Very few could stand in their way... There was the Witch though she's probably already dead. Tommy, maybe, with his power over entropy but Adam think he could sway him. He was always teetering, anyway, it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge—or _pull_ him, rather. Hell, all Adam had to do was take his hand and they could take the plunge together.

He could see it in Nate's eyes too, the logistics running in his head...

A world that was better. A world that was  _theirs_.

What if?

They stared at each other, thinking, considering. And then, the fantasy broke and they burst out laughing. Adam wiped the tears from his eyes, shaking his head even as his whole body spasmed with amusement. For a while, they shared that genuine moment; it seeped through Adam's body, warming him in a way that whiskey couldn't. They laughed and leaned on each other until something caught in his throat and he dissolved in a fit of coughing, ending the moment with a surge of pain.

“But I think… I think it’s a good world too,” Nate continued as he rubbed Adam’s back. “And some things are worth protecting.”

Adam smiled again. “Puppies and babies and girls with blond hair?”

“And boys with blond hair too,” Nate retorted, bumping his shoulder against Adam's.

Adam’s smile grew to a grin. “I’ll toast to that,” he said, raising the bottle and taking another shot.

It was starting to get to his head, giving him that slushy, light feeling that dulled everything else. He placed the bottle on the table and cradled his head in his hands, massaging his temples.

“It’s not fair,” he murmured, glancing at Teddy again. “We just want to live in peace.”

Nate placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze.

They sat quietly for a while, just listening to the scuttle of shoes against tiles… the beeping of machines… the murmuring of passing nurses... The sounds of _life_. A man came, offered them water, and left. A few minutes later, the same man returned and placed a basket of sandwiches on the bedside table; Adam hadn't even realized how hungry he was until Nate forced him to have one.

And as the hour passed, the aches and pains slowly made themselves known. Beneath the plasters and bandages, the cuts prickled and bruises bloomed. His stab wound, especially, was fierce burn in his side. The stitches stung too, especially the ones on his forehead, and his bad leg had begun to throb as well, foretelling a greater agony.

He didn’t realize he had his hands clenched into fists until Nate took one and tried to pry open his fingers.

"It's not that bad. Really." And he wasn't lying. As much as it hurt, he was still functional. He knew his body's limits and he knew he could still  _fight_. He wasn't _fine_ but that was irrelevant. "I'm okay."

“You should rest,” Nate said casually. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

 _If anyone dies, you mean_ , Adam thought but didn't say out loud.

“I saw him,” he said slowly as he brought his fists before him and forced them to relax. “I saw the Faketriot again.”

Nate stiffened and something passed briefly over his eyes as he looked down and nodded.

“What?”

“I… nothing. It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.”

Adam paused and frowned. “Share,” he said.

Nate bit his lip and nodded tersely. “It’s going to happen soon,” he said as he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “I did the math and I don’t know what it is or when exactly but some key event is about to happen. Two, in fact. One after the other. And these are the big ones. We _can't_ miss them, Adam. We can't.”

Adam lowered his voice to a whisper. “One of those timeline things?” he asked.

Nate looked up to face him. “Yeah. Soon,” he said, an anxious look in his eyes. “The Faketriot’s reappearance just confirms it.”

“Well whatever it is, we’ll make sure they happen,” Adam said, drawing himself up. “We just saved a country, man. Fixing the timeline? Sure. Why not.”

Nate almost smiled. “Yeah,” he said, with a look on his face that was both resigned and amused. “No big deal.”

Adam forced another smile and shrugged.

“I think I’ll go now,” he said.

He had already turned to leave when he heard a deep exhale.

“Wait,” Nate called out. He reached under the bed and pulled something out. “Here. I went back to get it.”

“My sword!” Adam exclaimed as he all but lunged for it.

Abruptly, Nate drew back his hands. Something shifted in his face, making it harder and sharper.

“Adam,” he said, all levity vanished. “I didn't know if I wanted to give this back to you. But I'm trusting you, all right? Because I think you trust me too. Please... be careful.”

“Yeah. Always.” Adam frowned, feigning ignorance. “You too—”

“Whatever it is,” Nate fixed him a steady gaze as he finally surrendered the sword. “Whatever you’re planning… do it. But be careful.”

Adam stared back at the boy and let his face go slack. In his grip, the sword was coming to life, stirring and singing as its soul reached out and tethered itself to his.

“Yeah,” he said, sinking into the sudden rush of power. "Yeah. I will."

He took one last look at Teddy before finally turning away to leave.

  

On his way back, he found Sami wandering the hallways.

“I was on my way to the infirmary,” the Inhuman said, as though an explanation was necessary. He gave Adam a quick look-over as he approached. “I heard you were there.”

"I was." Adam quirked his lips. He arched an eyebrow as he gave Sami a searching look. “You were looking for me?”

The aggrieved look on Sami's face almost made him laugh.

"Relax, Sami," Adam said, grinning as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm just messing with you."

He almost missed how the other man winced, if not for the spasm under his hand.

"I think _you_ should get checked out," he added. 

"I'm fine."

Everyone's mantra, it seems, though the pretense was least convincing on Sami. He looked worse for wear—not to the same brutalized extent as Adam, of course, or even Nate but bruised and tattered all the same and he didn't hide it well. He was walking a little funny too. His arms were wrapped up in bandages and a large cotton square had been freshly plastered over his forehead.

Still... none of that diminished his looks. If anything, they lent him an air of ruggedness, which only served to exaggerate his already considerable natural allure. Battered and beaten was a cute look on Sami.

 _Oh boy_ , Adam thought as he sloshed the bottle in his hand and placed it on a nearby table.  _What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“You should sleep,” Sami said, frowning. And always true to form, prim and proper Sami had kept his face clean and his beard meticulously trimmed so that it looked like it might tickle but not overwhelm. His hair had been recently washed too, glossy and soft and combed back in its usual fastidious fashion.

"Your bruises match your eyes," Adam replied softly. And then, to test the waters, he reached up and placed a hand on Sami's cheek, feeling curiously sad when the Inhuman didn't pull away—yet excited all the same. 

He lips pulled in a melancholy smile. _Just one more time_ , he promised himself, as he smoothed back his hair and bit his lip.

“Come on,” he said, taking Sami’s hand, wondering briefly at its softness, its unmarred smoothness. “I can think of better things to do than sleep.”

 

"I could stay," Sami mumbled after, voice guarded and heavy with sleep. "If you want me to."

But Adam didn't. Not this time, no, and besides, he had things to do, things he didn't want anyone to see him doing. Blood magic was never pretty, even when seen in a post-coital glow.

So instead, he forced a grin on his face and shoved the bunched up clothes in Sami's arms.

"Nah," he said convincingly as he pinched Sami's nose and gave it a little shake. "I need sleep and you're a distraction."

Sami gave him a scrutinizing look, followed shortly by a shrug. Adam watched as he slowly pulled on his clothes and padded away on the carpeted floor.

"Get some rest. Goodnight," he said, disappointment coloring his voice.

There was a brief moment—a _would-have-been_ moment, really, because Adam wouldn't even remember—when Sami looked back just as he was about to step out the door and his eyes flashed a familiar, impossible blue and his face resembled another's. Just a split-second flash though—a trick of the light on the eye, too quick to even become memory—for when his lips twisted in that Sami smile of his, his face was his own again.

Adam didn't think much of it and as soon as the door closed behind Sami, he threw the covers off his naked body, leapt off the bed, and got to work. 

 

The demon inside the holding circle paced and shrieked, hurling its still-churning corporeal form against the invisible barrier. It had arrived in the guise of a formless black cloud that roiled with thunder and lightning, then it grew arms and legs and pincers and an exoskeleton, and then, after a minute or so of wild thrashing, the giant centipede died, shriveled, and gave birth to a child with hands for feet and mouths for eyes. On and on it shifted as it sought out the weaknesses in the binding Forms.

It wasn’t Adam’s first demon and it was only a local demon, a very minor figure in the ladder of divinity, but it was putting up quite a fight.

He spat to one side to rid his mouth of blood. “Jesus. Fuck. Calm the fuck down,” he muttered, profoundly unimpressed, as he double-checked the Schwab Equivalencies that he had carved in the wooden floor: three equations to bind body, mind, and spirit, etched separately in three concentric circles.

He was kneeling on the floor and around him, the tools of his craft spread out: a mortar and pestle, bundles of dried thyme and sage and ashwagandha, the half-eaten heart of a local bird whose name he didn’t know, and a tooth that he had pulled out of his own mouth. His knives were displayed neatly to the side and behind him, hopefully in plain view of the demon, was his sword, just in case. More a deterrence than anything.

Yawning, he stretched his arms overhead and rolled his shoulders to work out a kink.

“I’m not going to bind you.”

“Oh,” the demon said, pausing in the form of a glowing green blob for a moment. “It’s _you_.”

“Damn right it’s me,” Adam said, a little exasperated. “And you can be sure I got the math right.”

The demon, now an anthropomorphic toad, roared at him, unleashing a torrent of what must be acid. It rebounded harmlessly against the perimeter of his circle.

“Are you here for my seed?” the demon hissed.

“Your _seed_?” Adam laughed. “What the fuck?" Was that something people usually did? Summon demons for their spunk? "No, I only want information.”

“ _Only_ information?” the demon asked, now manifesting as a small sun with a hundred blinking eyes. “What fell knowledge do you seek, Heir Supreme, that you would dare imprison a demon?”

“ _Imprison_ ,” Adam scoffed. “Don’t be a drama queen. I told you I’m not binding you. You’ll be home before dawn. Tops. You’ll be back to torturing innocent souls in hell or whatever it is you demons do for fun. Come on. A few questions. Then, you’re free to go. I'm not keeping you here.” Adam paused and licked his lip. He lifted the bouquet of thistle as though to reinforce the promise with a visible gesture. He gave it a little shake.  “Unless you grant wishes too?”

“Fuck off,” the demon shot back, finally settling in the form of a woman with pallid skin, corpse-blue with deoxygenated blood and clad in a yellow robe that was slashed open at the chest. A baby bit into the nipple of an exposed breast and dangled freely by its mouth, body hanging limply and distending the breast so grotesquely that Adam had to resist the urge wince.

“Don’t I look pretty?” the demon cooed in a mocking, feminine voice. It sounded so warm and maternal, it made his skin crawl. “This I plucked from your memory, little mage. Do you remember?”

And suddenly, he did. His mood darkened at the sudden intrusion of memory. “You know, it’s actually within my power to keep you here, right?” he said quietly. “You’d do well to remember. You know who I am so you should know what I’m capable of. I can cram you in a marble and drop it in the bottom of the Mariana’s Trench where no one will ever find you again.”

The demon smiled. “It’s this one, isn’t it?” it said. “This is the one?” It pinched its free nipple and shivered. Gray, glaucomic eyes widened with pleasure and a soft moan escaped its cracked lips. It's free hand went to its mouth where the fingers spread and made a lewd gesture.

Adam met its gaze and held it for a long minute. “What do you know about the attack on Genosha?” he asked.

“Demons are not as invested in mortal affairs as you humans presume.” The demon grinned as its skin began to crack and weep black blood. “You are not as interesting to us as you imagine yourselves to be.”

Adam waited for the demon to go on. When it didn’t, he picked up a stick of twisted herbs and blew at the tip, setting it alight with magic. The smoke curled in the air and wafted forward.

The demon sneered as Adam used a minor kinetic spell to gather and coax the drifting smoke towards the circle.

“Is that—is that fucking _cilantro_?” it shrieked, offended.

Adam shrugged as he gently twitched his fingers to guide the gray smoke, as though he could control them with puppet strings. It had a sharp, ashy smell, just as he wanted. “I ran out of payong ali.”

“Little boy, if you think these parlor tricks would work on me, He without Name, Lord Consort to the King of Worms, Venerable Whore to the dread cavalry—”

“Come on. Let’s not preoccupy ourselves with formal titles. I’ve summoned bigger demons than you.”

Truth was he’d only ever summoned a demon once before and he'd never wanted to repeat the experience thereafter. It had been a nasty one too but the spell he’d needed then was powerful and high taboo… How long had it been? Years and years ago… a lifetime away… when the shining heroes of the world had decided he was too powerful to live.

 _I had no choice_ , he reminded himself again.  _They forced my hand._

“What fell knowledge do you seek, little mage?” Lethe had asked then too.

“A spell,” he'd said, his voice breaking. “A spell to make the world forget.”

A piercing shriek yanked him back to the present as the incense smoke breached the binding circle’s perimeter. The demon disintegrated in an explosion of black clouds, expanding upwards in a cylinder; a moment later, it collapsed in itself and reconstituted in its previous manifestation.

“Fuck! Okay! Okay! I’ll talk!” it shouted, momentarily forgetting its female voice as it scrambled and pressed its back against the circle. “Christ! Get it away!”

Adam smirked. With a clap of his hands and a twist about his wrists, he broke the spell and dispersed the smoke. “Mutates in Genosha. Explain. Now.”

“Mutates?” the demon spat, glaring at him now. “Dead and long gone! There hasn’t been one in decades.”

Adam paused and spat again to the side, suddenly light-headed. “We were attacked.”

“Not by mutates.” The demon paused for a moment. When it spoke again, its voice was low and careful, almost like a predator’s growl. “You look weak, little mage.”

Adam propped himself up and straightened his back. “Still stronger than you,” he said, though he didn’t really feel it. He was bleeding from his gums and his tongue had a nasty cut where he’d bitten down during the invocation. He was feeling a little dizzy too (summoning wasn’t really his area of magic) and his bad leg was already throbbing from kneeling for so long.

“Tell me about mutates,” he tried again, massaging his thigh. “What were they?”

“Aberrations like you,” the demon said. “Distortions of nature. Rank backwash of the gene pool. Abortions and deviations and—”

“All right, all right, I get it. I'm a filthy mutant.” Adam lifted his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes. “You bore me. Move along, now.”

The demon smiled. “Slaves befitting a kingdom as great as old Genosha.”

It padded around the circle, eyes sharp and feral as it scrutinized the equations again, and Adam couldn’t help but look too, just in case. He didn’t think he had the energy to fight off a malevolent spirit if it happened to break out.

“Mutates were the mutants of Genosha, as you well know. Plucked from their homes as children but after they were broken and trained, they made perfect servants. It took years but you couldn't argue with the results. Very obedient and very adept. The feed was cheap too and you could store them in tanks at night—or even in the daytime if you had no need of them. They could marinate in their piss and shit for days and they won't make a peep. They were taught very well." The demon sighed with an air of nostalgia. "It was a perfect system, really. Very economical. Look at what this city used to be. Look at what wondrous things humanity has wrought when it knew to keep your lot in your place.”

“I heard they had no free will,” Adam said distantly.

“You heard right, Heir Supreme.”

A cold wind blew from the open windows, bringing with it the wet smell of the western forests. Adam turned to look at the clock on the wall (half-past three in the morning) and rubbed his arms with his hands. Goosebumps erupted over his skin and he couldn't help but shiver and curl into himself at the frigid assault.

The demon watched closely, eyes flickering back and forth between him and the circle’s bounds.

“So how were they controlled?” Adam asked, casually fingering the cilantro in warning. “Neural implants? Electromagnetic waves? Radio?”

The demon dropped to its haunches and crossed its arms, looking thoroughly bored. “No. Just good old-fashioned brainwashing. The old Genoshans were very traditional.”

“Huh.”

“A ready workforce, quick, cheap, and easy,” it added. “No unions either. All things considered, it was a great system if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Adam said evenly. “Please keep from editorializing and just answer the questions.”

The demon bared its teeth and hissed again. For all its moxie and posturing, it still bore the mark of a lower caste spirit. And its theatrics had long lost its novelty.

“If I wanted to find mutates,” Adam continued. “How would I go about doing that?”

“A pointless endeavor. There are no more mutates.”

“Humor me,” Adam said. “How would I identify one?”

“Check its forehead. It’ll be barcoded,” the demon replied with a sigh. “If not, use a psychological tap to check for signs of reconditioning. Madison’s Probe would suffice. A Unilateral Immersion, if you’re feeling kinky.”

Adam reflected on that for a while and hoped that someone had had the foresight to take some of the ‘mutates' prisoners.

“Thanks,” he said absently before changing gears. “So the ones that attacked us. What were they?”

“Heralds,” the demon said with grin. “Heralds of a coming war. An old war.”

“Enough with the equivocation. Speak plainly.”

The demon shrugged. “There are weapons… made in the days of antiquity… older than holy Genosha itself,” it said, an dreamy look settling over its eyes. “Weapons that could raze cities to the ground, break planets in half. Weapons to make orphans and widows.” It closed its eyes and smiled as it hugged itself. “Ancient weapons, forbidden now.”

“And… they’re looking for these weapons?”

“No,” the demon said, its face souring with disapproval. “They seek to destroy them.”

“But… why?” Adam frowned. He leaned a hand against the floor as a wave of nausea suddenly overwhelmed him. He didn't have much time; he had to dismiss the demon soon. “Why not just take the weapons and use them?”

The demon bounced on its feet, shrieking giddily, and Adam caught his mistake too late. “Uh-uh-uh!” it said, wagging a mischievous finger. “I know the limits of your spell. You cannot compel me to answer a why question!”

“Who—”

The demon shrieked again, looking thoroughly pleased with itself.

“You broke the rules! You broke the rules!” it said happily. “I will no longer answer questions pertaining to mutates or the not-mutates. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“Fuck,” Adam swore under his breath, and glared at the demon skipping and dancing inside the circle.

“Well, if we’re done here, can I go now?”

Adam shook his head. He drew himself up, straightening his back again, and took a deep breath. There was one more thing he had to ask.

“Tell me about Mephisto,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The demon head snapped up and its gray eyes darkened and deepened to pitch-black as they stared at him. “There are questions no mortal should ask,” it said quietly after a long pause. “Not even you, my Heir Supreme.”

“Respond, demon.”

“Very well.” It rose to its feet, the physics all wrong, too much grace and fluidity. Too _serpentine._ “Lord Mephisto was a Lord of Hell,” it said, almost reverently, drawing itself up to its full height. “Malicious and sadistic, even for our kind. Did you wish to summon him? Too bad. I’d like to see you try. Watch him shred you to ribbons and turn you inside-out. Oh, how he’ll ravish you. Fuck you silly ‘til you’re all torn up and bleeding. You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Pretty skin. Pretty bones.” A pink tongue darted out between its lips and gave them a quick lick. “He won't let you die. He’ll break your arms and legs and bite off your puny fingers one by one, you insolent mage. Then he’ll fuck you until you split in two. Oh, the screams… Just the thought of it makes me hard.” The demon cupped its free breast and spread its legs, revealing an engorged clitoris peeking out, thick as a penis. “Shame,” it said, moaning as it stroked itself. “Such a shame.”

Adam sucked in a breath. “ _Was_ a Lord of Hell?” He asked, his voice going an octave up.

“Lord Mephisto is dead,” the demon said, as it continued to play with itself.

“Mephisto’s dead?” he asked again, trying his best to keep his voice calm and guarded. “No hidden pieces of him anywhere? Like maybe… a soul? Like... like a horcrux?”

The demon lunged towards him and pressed its face against the barrier. “Gone! Gone! Gone!” it screamed, eyes wide. Its erection swung heavily between its legs, flinging thick fluids all over the floor. “Lord Mephisto is dead! No trace of him remains!”

Adam leaned back reflexively, which the demon must have mistaken for fear, eliciting a long bout of laughter. But none of that mattered. And for a moment, when it wasn’t looking, he allowed himself a smile.

“No trace of him remains,” he repeated quietly to himself.

Then, he started laughing.

“He’s dead?! Fucking dead?!” He was sobbing now too. Laughing and sobbing at the same time. “And there’s nothing left,” he murmured to himself, breathing hard. “We have souls. We have our own souls.”

His thoughts turned to Tommy, a boy who carried the memories of another world, his twin whose own power terrified him. Two souls created, in violation to all laws of magic. They had souls. Their _own_ souls. He wondered if his brother would care about any of that, that they were not pieces of a demon, that they were pieces of nothing but of themselves, or if he would think such considerations too lofty and unimportant.  _Details_ , Adam could imagine him saying with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, a soul you have,” the demon said sweetly, each word dripping with venom. “And my, oh my, what you’ve done to it.”

Adam smiled defiantly, lifting his chin up in challenge. All he did, he did to protect himself, to survive. He cleared his throat and picked up a notebook and pen he’d set aside. “Just one last thing,” he said.

“They always say that.”

“They? You get summoned a lot?”

“Well—”

“Actually, I don’t care."

The demon’s eyes lit up and its mouth pulled back to reveal sharp teeth.

“Just one last thing.”

“Yeah, yeah. Out with it, little mage. I grow weary of this conversation.”

Adam took a deep breath as his pen glided across the paper.

“I need a spell.”

 

Adam sank into the upholstered chair and buried his face in his hand.

The other he held out over the desk, palm up and shaking. The gash in his forearm was deep and fresh, a pink line running from the heel of the palm all the way down to the crook of the inner arm, angry and inflamed; already the cut had begun to fester, burning something fierce, and the smell of rot had already set in—faint but noticeable.

He looked to the clock—a few minutes past seven-thirty—and sighed with relief. The spell had taken more than three hours to cast and that was just laying down the preliminary scaffolding. There were still the primary sequences to cast, the conditioning matrix, and the quaternary configurations to tie everything all up. Those would be longer. And costlier.

He pulled open the desk’s drawer and rummaged around for the alcohol swabs and bandages that he had stolen from the infirmary. He had lifted a set of surgical needles and sutures too and he set them carefully on the table but kept them aside for now.

He looked to the clock again (almost breakfast, Max and his Council would be expecting him) and quickly dabbed the wound with the cotton swabs, hissing under his breath as the antiseptic burned the exposed flesh.

Then, once he was satisfied, he threaded the suture through the needle and began stitching.

 

“How did it go in there?”

“What did the Council say?”

“Do we know who attacked us?”

“What are we going to do?”

The questions assaulted Adam as soon as he and Tommy sat down. The ballroom, a cavernous structure of marble and crystal, had been refashioned into a makeshift canteen. Along with other halls and the rotunda surrounding the castle, it had been opened to the public—those who lived close proximity to the castle anyway—and right now it was packed with people, those who didn't have enough stock in their own bunkers. Refugees among refugees.

They had thrown the windows open and there were large standing fans ever few feet but even all that did little to dispel the heat and humidity that choked the room. Still, Adam didn’t think he’d ever be happy to find himself in the company of such dense humanity.

 _More people means more survivors_ , he reminded himself.

“Questions later. Food now,” Tommy said, eyeing the line, which stretched the length of the hall and out the doors into the corridor leading to the front gates.

“I’ve got your rations,” Sami said. Two small boxes wrapped in aluminum.

Tommy grunted appreciatively just as Adam said, “They’re cold."

“Give it here.” Tommy waved a hand over the boxes. His eyes flashed green for a moment as the foil warmed in Adam’s hands.

“Increased molecular vibration?”

Tommy nodded.

“Nice.” Creating energy out of nothing. Adam was impressed. Not even magic could do that.

“I can’t believe you broke the laws of thermodynamics just to heat up mush.” He swirled the plastic spoon in his meal, some grayish yellowish blob with a consistency somewhere between clay and mashed potato. At least there was gravy. “It’s a non-Newtonian fluid,” he remarked with an even voice and a thin smile.

“There’s a blockade around the island,” Nate said blandly.

“More like an armada,” Cassie added.

“Supply routes have been cut and we don’t know how long before the siege is lifted,” Sami said.  “The non-Newtonian fluid will do for now.”

Adam scowled. “Send _me_ out there. I’ll lift the fucking siege myself,” he mumbled as he shovelled gruel in his mouth; as it turned out, it was actually pretty edible but he thought he should complain. At the very least, out of principle.

Sami snorted and rolled his eyes. “And then what? They’ll just send more ships. And this time they might think to come closer to the island. And then, embargoes. No one will trade with us. What then? No one can fight the whole world. Not even you, Adam.”

"Don't tempt me." Adam levelled him a stare and arched an eyebrow. “We’re already at war.”

“Not with them.”

“Then with who?”

“I don’t know. But you can’t just go around sinking ships—”

"Well fuck that and fuck your—"

Tommy cleared his throat and touched Adam’s elbow.

"Okay, relax, baby brother. Let's not bring that here."

Adam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, he turned back to Sami and offered him his fakest smile. The Inhuman had the nerve to snort and roll his eyes.

“We have the ASF fleet to the southwest and a UN contingent to the northeast,” Tommy said quietly, looking around to make sure no one could overhear. “And _we_ have no navy. He's right, bro. We can’t risk open war." He looked around the table as he spooned more mush in his mouth. "At least not right now,” he added quickly.

“Whose side are you on?” Adam muttered bitterly into his lunch, feeling a little betrayed. This had all been discussed with Max and his Council but been had been too preoccupied with his arm (something he itched to fuss over even now) to actually pay attention. “And since when did the United Nations have a police force?”

“Since Genosha declared itself a state,” Cassie said.

“Well, that’s just great. Whose idea—” Adam turned to her and immediately fell quiet.

Cassie had lost a considerable amount of weight. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes were drooping and bloodshot. She had donned an oversized gray jacket even though the canteen was positively stifling and it hung on her frame like clothes on a hanger.

“It takes a lot out of me,” she said timidly, when she saw him looking. “I haven’t used my powers this much in so long." She paused, her eyes glazing for a moment. "Maybe if I hadn’t disappeared for all those years, if I stopped for that long, I could have saved more.”

And then, as though on cue, Nate drew her into a sideway hug. “It’s all right, Cass,” he said. “You saved a lot of people.” He took what was left of his own box and poured the contents in hers. “But now, you have to rest and eat.”

It was beginning to look like a private moment so Adam and Sami looked away (not Tommy though, who was glaring openly at Nate).

“What’s ASF?” Adam asked, to change the subject.

“African Standby Force,” Sami explained readily. “Answers directly to the African Union.”

“Great. So the AU to the west and the UN to the North. I think we just unified the world.”

Sami grinned his lop-sided grin. “Yes. By giving them a common enemy,” he said without irony.

Adam chuckled and returned the smile as he finished the last of his lunch.

“How’s Eli?” he asked.

"Um..."

“He’s staying with me,” Tommy said, to Adam's surprise. “You know, I think he recognizes me. Like he knows me.” His blue eyes drifted somewhere over Adam’s shoulder, growing distant. A softness fleeted across his face, a look that Adam sometimes saw. Something that looked a lot like longing. “I know it’s impossible, but yeah… sometimes, I think..."

Cassie frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good—”

“It’s fine,” Tommy said airily, suddenly restored. His scars gleamed as he waved a hand, nonchalant. “Besides, between all of us, I think I know him best.”

The lines between Cassie’s eyebrows deepened as she bit her lip. But in the end, she didn’t argue.

“I want him fixed,” he added, turning to Adam. “And soon. How’s your friend doing on that front?”

The question struck him like a blow. “I… uh… I don’t know.” His eyes dropped to the table and pulled together in consternation. He hadn’t heard from Ruixian since the day of the attack, which had been nearly a week ago. A sudden coldness crept over him as the fear took root. “I-I don’t know. They're scrambling all signals going in and out the island.” He paused, swallowed the knot forming in his throat, and forced himself to look up. "I'm sure she's fine."

“Yeah. She's all right,” Nate said, attempting to sound reassuring, but the false note in his voice betrayed him. “She looks like she can take care of herself.”

“She’s a strong girl,” Cassie agreed. She reached across the table and touched Adam's arm.

"Y-yeah. Yeah." He smiled. "She can protect herself. She’s probably just—”

Something caught him mid-sentence. A sudden shift in the air. Something was wrong. Were they under attack again? His eyes darted back and forth, between pillars and tables and the crowd, looking for any sign of trouble. It only took him a moment to register the change:

The whole hall had fallen silent.

All heads were turned towards their table, eyes raking over him in a way that made him feel like a piece of meat.

His skin crawled, remembering the not-mutates, how they stared at him too with those dead, vacuous eyes of theirs. “What’s happening?” he asked quietly, eyeing Tommy to his side, who was also scanning the crowd for trouble.

His hands were already in front of him, spell-ready and itching to make the first move, when Sami tugged at his sleeve and leaned over. “They saw you,” he whispered. “They saw you charging through the city when you were drawing away the mutates.”

“What? How did they—”

“They know you’re a hero.”

 _Hero_.

“Hero?”

The word triggered something in him. The sound of it felt vile and wrong in his tongue, like something oily and slimy that made him want to throw up. Images flashed in his head: the black belly of the ocean… a sword, his only light, flashing in the dark… claws and teeth scrambling to get at him… a boy with broken hands, lying still on a blood-slick floor…

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, already striding away. The humid heat and the smell of sweat pressed in on him. He felt a little light-headed but he forced himself to keep walking. He had his back to the crowd so he didn’t have to see them but he couldn’t block out the sounds.

“Adam!”

It started with just one voice—a woman, somewhere in the back of the hall.

“Adam!”

Then, it spread, rippling through the crowd like a disease.

“Adam! Adam! Adam!” they chanted, amidst the whooping and the cheering.

The sound of it all filled his ears, turning his stomach. He recoiled when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Hey!”

His hand reached automatically into his sleeves and in a flash, he had drawn his knife. He slashed at his assailant, who reacted quick enough to put up her arms so she blocked his wrist and his hand slid harmlessly to one side. It had all happened in a split-second, preceding conscious thought, and when he looked up and saw a pair of startled blue eyes, his whole body went slack and the knife fell from his hand. 

“Get me out of here,” he said and Cassie wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him out the hallway.

“Adam! Adam! Adam!” the voices rang out behind him, swelling with awe and adoration.

On and on and on, following them as they climbed the castle. Even when he couldn’t hear them anymore, their voices played in his head, “Adam! Adam! Adam!”, until it was all that he could hear and the word eventually lost all meaning.

 

Cassie brought him to the solarium in the west wing, a vast room styled as an indoor garden, with its own irrigation system dripping from overflowing aqueducts set high up in the walls and the shallow canals carved in the floor. Sunlight poured in through the skylight, bathing the room in a comfortable warmth.

A wide podium rose prominently in the center, crafted like an island in a pond, and in its center spouted a three-tiered fountain. They crossed a short wooden bridge and ensconced themselves in one of the wrought metal benches facing the small fountain in the podium’s center.

_Adam! Adam! Adam!_

It all pressed around him like something solid, squeezing until he suffocated. He buried his face in his hands, taking deep breaths, and tried to focus on the sound of the water, babbling and gurgling as it tumbled down the fountain.

 _Drown it out_ , he told himself.  _Drown it out._

“Better?” Cassie asked, once the voices had died down and his breathing had evened out. He only noticed now that he had a hand on his back."Do you wanna talk about it?"

“I’m okay,” he said as he sat up. He pushed his glasses up his nose and forced a smile. “I’m okay.”

“Adam, I think you just had an attack. What happened out there?”

“I—” He thought he saw Councilor Peterson sitting with his husband a few benches over, so he turned his back to them and dropped his voice.

“I’m fine. It was just…” He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of flowers and freshly turned dirt. “I’m okay now,” he said evenly. “Thanks for taking me out of there. It was just so hot a-and there were so many people and they started chanting my name and it got too much.”

She levelled him an assessing look. "You're not fine. You're not okay," she said as she carefully placed a hand on his left wrist. "And you don't always have to pretend that you're not hurt." 

Gingerly, she pushed back the sleeve to reveal his stitched up forearm. He must have botched the work because already, it seemed to be getting worse; the edges were an angry, swollen red and there was a yellowish liquid oozing out. If Cassie noticed the putrid odor, she didn’t say. Instead, she simply clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Did you really think I couldn't tell? I fought beside you for years, Adam,” she said, a little disappointed. “We trained as a team. Lived as a team. Fought as a team. I could always tell when you’re hurt just by looking. Sometimes even when _you_ didn’t know yet.”

She held his stare and sighed.

“Do I want to know?”

Adam shook his head.

“Please, Cassie,” he said with a wince. “Don’t tell them.”

She nodded and a corner of her lips turned downwards. “Oh Adam, what am I gonna do with you?”

The question caught him off-guard and he could only stare at her as his breaths quickened and his chest tightened. It was anger, he realized. He was angry  _at her_. And for a moment, he was seeing red.

"I'm not yours to do anything with," he said in a low voice. "We are not a _team_ , Cassie. We haven't been for a very long time. You abandoned me and Eli and Kate long before I ran away. You _betrayed_ us and went to Stark and then when everything went to shit and Cap died, you disappeared. We are not Young Avengers, Cassie. Not anymore. So don't ask yourself what you're gonna do with me." He leaned away from her and sneered. "Because frankly, who the hell do you think you are?"

He had meant it to hurt, to push her away. He wanted her to back off. But Cassie... unflappably caring, _patronizi_ _ng_ Cassie... only looked him straight in the eye and slowly shook her head. “You’re never gonna forgive yourself, are you?”

The audacity of it shocked him and after a moment's pause, he laughed out loud. "That's what you did, right? You forgave yourself for leaving us?" he said, smiling viciously. "That's good for you. I applaud you for having the _courage_ to forgive yourself. But hey, guess what, Stature." He bent over so that his face was only a few inches from hers. "You might have forgiven yourself but _I_ haven't forgiven you."

That seemed to have done the trick. He watched her face freeze, too shocked by his cruelty for the hurt to even show on her face.

“Teddy’s dying,” he went on, his voice rising. “Eli’s still broken. Ruixian’s missing—”

“Adam, that’s not your—”

“—The Seven is on the brink of extinction. The timeline is unraveling—”

She tried to place her hands on his arms but he pushed her away.

“Zombies invaded my city.” He jerked away from her and let out a harsh laugh. “Fucking _zombies,_ Cassie!”

“Adam, you’re—”

“A kid is dying, Cass! A kid! He’s fucking nine and—”

Her fist came out of nowhere, slamming against his jaw with full force.

“Shut up,” she said in a hard voice, trembling. “Stop talking. Don’t. Just—stop.”

Stunned, he held the side of his face where she’d hit him, eyes wide with horror as he watched her shrink an inch.

“You can’t do this to me, Adam,” she said quietly. “You can’t. It’s just the two of us now.”

“Cassie, I—”

“No! You listen to me, Adam Thorne! Don’t you get it?” Her hands shook emphatically in front of her, her face wrinkling and turning red, close to tears. “Kate’s gone! Eli’s gone! You’re all I’ve got left!”

Adam stared at her, speechless. “You’ve got Nate,” he mumbled half-heartedly.

“Nate!” Her face twisted into something caught between rage and hopelessness. “Nate’s gone! And he’s never coming back!” she cried. Then, as though she’d surprised herself, her eyes widened and a hand flew to her mouth. Her face froze and then crumpled as the tears finally spilled from her eyes. Her shoulders slumped forward and her gaze fell to her lap. “He left us a long time ago, Adam,” she said softly as a sob wracked her still-shrinking frame. She only came up to his shoulder now. "And he's never coming back."

“I…” His hand reached for her as though by instinct, but he stopped himself in time. “I’m sorry, Cassie,” was all he managed to say. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have said any of it. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

She might have still been crying, he couldn’t tell. Her golden hair spilled over her face, a curtain separating her from the world, from him. He looked away and blinked back, as though to will away tears that weren’t there, and noticed that the solarium had emptied but for them.

“We’re all we’ve got now,” she said, peering up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “There used to be four of us and it’s just the two of us now. I can’t do this without you. I can’t! You have to be strong. I—”

Her eyes widened again but before she could saying anything else, he threw his arms around her and drew her in.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m so sorry, Cass. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything but he felt her nod against his shoulder. She stiffened for a moment and then melted against him, sighing and shivering. They stayed like that for a long time, quiet and immobile as Adam’s shoulder grew wet with her tears.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he murmured softly, as he stroked her hair. “I’ve got you, Cass. You’re okay.”

She nodded again, with a terseness and urgency that made him realize how hard she was clinging to him.

“I’m going to fix this, I swear,” he said.

Somewhere behind her, leaves rustled as something stirred in the foliage. Adam caught a glimpse of something blue and golden and fleeting, standing half-hidden amidst the green. But before the image could register to memory, he blinked and the mirage was gone, like a phantom that was never there.

“Save them, Adam,” Cassie said. “Save them all.”

“I will,” he lied, as he turned back his attention on her and hugged her closer.

 _I can’t save anyone_ , he thought. _I can’t even save myself._

 

It happened for the third time in the shower. And this time, he remembered.

The water was running hot, rising in a mist around him, and as he reached for his towel, the fog shifted and parted as that same face drifted forward until it was only inches from his, gold and blue and fleeting. The hands came after, wrapping around him as though to draw him closer, and for a moment he thought he could feel the press of a chest and a set of arms, feel the warmth of a body against his. He could even almost smell that sun-burnt skin.

 _Impossible_ , he thought, even as his hand reflexively swiped up in a defensive Form before he could stop himself.

“Wait!”

Too late. The fog swirled and dissipated, taking with it the ghost of the boy that never was.

 

"What have you done?" he would ask later, as he worked his spell over Teddy's body. "What have you done to me?"

And Teddy, who was sleeping, dying, could only respond with silence.

Instead, another voice answered. Somewhere deep inside him, the other one stirred, fracturing and breaking from him for a heartbeat. 

 _He was never yours, Adam Thorne_ , the other said.  _He has always been mine._

But a moment later and they were one again. And the voice was gone again, like a shape lost in a vanishing fog.

 

Adam had sensed the boy’s presence hours ago but this portion of the spell he was working was a hellishly complex maze of Form and Song, he didn’t dare let his attention waver. He had expected Kostja to stop him (had hoped he would leave him alone) but in the end, the boy simply watched, hovering outside the window like a ghost in the rain.

“If you’re going to stay,” Adam said, once he had finished the verbal component. His fingers moved restlessly over Teddy’s still form, twitching and contorting even as they threatened to cramp. His left arm throbbed and screamed with pain, as the flesh in the reopened wound tore and burned with every Form. “You might as well come in and keep me company.”

He smiled privately at the startled squeak behind him, followed by the dull thud of Kostja’s head hitting the window sill. Then, there was the crackling sound of a foreign spell and the boy floated into the room, having passed through the wall through some magic unknown to Adam.

“Good evening, Heir Supreme,” Kostja said as he settled in the chair across Adam. He leaned over Teddy and read off the notebook that Adam had propped over the boy’s chest.

“Hello, Kostja. Are you alone?”

Without lifting his eyes from the book, the boy nodded. “We’re taking six-hour shifts. Sam and Neha thought there should be someone with him in case he wakes up but… we’re not hopeful.” He looked up from the paper, his face a carefully blank façade. “I don’t recognize this spell.”

Adam grunted. He stopped for a moment, cracked his fingers, and shook his hands out a little before flipping the page.

“Is it healing magic?” the boy asked in a hushed voice of mingled fear and awe.

“No.” Adam smiled and resumed the casting. “I’m too scared to cast one of those.”

“Too pricey?”

“Too dangerous.”

Kostja arched an eyebrow. Behind him, a nurse passed by and nodded at Adam in greeting.

“Too risky for Teddy," he added, nodding back at her. She had been kind enough not to report his coming and going to the infirmary so he thought he should at least be cordial. "Besides, they're probably too complex for me.”

The boy snorted as he jabbed a finger into the paper, where it landed on a particularly convoluted equation.

“And _this_ is not complex?”

Adam shrugged. “I have experience with psychological magic. Healing, not so much.” He looked at the clock. Half past one in the morning. If he worked at this pace, he could finish before three.

“You’re casting a psychological spell?”

“Breaking.” He shook his head. “I’ve been at it for a little more than five hours now. Make yourself useful and check the dewar flask under the bed. There should still be a few inches left.”

Kostja slid off the chair and crouched.

“It’s turned red,” he reported as he resurfaced.

“Good. Flip the page for me. Thanks.”

“You’re trying to break his wards,” Kostja said matter-of-factly as he perched back on the chair.

“I am. Something went wrong. He saw something and his wards closed in on him. And now that he’s under a coma and on the brink of death, they've gone on overdrive and have cocooned around his mind. I’m trying to break the feedback loop. Then maybe he’ll wake up.”

Kostja nodded and fell quiet.

Adam followed the boy’s gaze and allowed himself a glimpse of Teddy’s face. It was still so pallid and lifeless. A perfect mask. His golden hair fell softly on his pillow, having been washed and brushed by an attendant nurse. Adam watched his small chest rise and fall, so imperceptible and so precious, the last sign of life. Around him, machines lit up and beeped comfortingly and yet, as thankful as Adam was for all this contraption keeping Teddy alive, he couldn't help that feeling of wrongness that such a small body should be connected to so many tubes and wires.

“I heard the Council met a few hours ago,” Kostja said, his tone guarded. He was looking at the ventilator readings, scrutinizing them closely as though he could divine some meaning from the readings. “An emergency meeting. Something about a diplomatic envoy from the UN?” A pause. “You didn’t go.”

“I couldn’t. This spell… it’s delicate.”

“And costly,” Kostja said, eyeing Adam’s left arm.

Adam nodded slightly. Sweat trickled down his neck and arms and his fingers were starting to feel funny. But he only had an hour left; he just had to push through. “I have to get everything right. And everything on time. Psychological wards exist in this psychological-physical liminal space."

Kostja looked at him blankly and tilted his head to one side.

"Instead of a protective shell, it helps to visualize a psychological ward like a root system instead, embedded in that liminal space, which I theorize is actually where the psyche resides."

"Right."

"So you understand, I can’t shatter it without damaging Teddy’s mind. And it’s dynamic too. I dismantle one tendril and an auxiliary structure will just grow a new part to compensate.”

“A recursive spell!" Kostja exclaimed, eyes wide. "Teddy has always been the prodigy... I mean we're all good but he... He's something else."

Adam smiled and nodded. "Yeah, no kidding."

"So I guess you’re going for the deep scaffold? The part that holds everything together? Disable that and no regeneration?”

“Then the wards wither and die and Teddy gets a psychic infection.”

Kostja paused and frowned. He worried at his lip as he grappled with the problem in his mind. Adam watched as the boy flipped through his spell book and wondered if he would be able to work it out.

“I give up,” Kostja finally said after a few long minutes of consternation.

Despite himself, Adam chuckled. “I have to dismantle everything in one strike,” he said simply.

Kostja looked like he’d been duped. “But you said—”

“ _Delicately_ ,” Adam said with emphasis. “I’m finding cracks in Teddy's spellwork to sink in the hooks of my spell. Then, I can pull everything out safely and simultaneously.”

“No psychic damage. No ward regeneration.”

“Well, we hope,” Adam said. “Flip the plage, please.”

Kostja flipped the page.

“But Teddy is a psychological mage,” Adam continued. “He might think it’s an attack and lash out… or I might trigger some psychic trap. A lot could go wrong. He could get hurt.”

“ _You_ could get hurt.”

Adam flicked his eyes towards the boy. “You’re not going to try to stop me, are you?”

“No,” Kostja said, almost immediately. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into his chair. “I think you’ve shown that you can take care of yourself.”

Adam snorted. He was twenty-four and the kid was _twelve_.

“And not like I could, anyway. Not with that stupid sword of yours.”

“I appreciate that. Would you get the dewar flask, please? Thanks. Now, I need some of his hair.”

Kostja ran his fingers through Teddy’s locks and murmured something in a language Adam didn’t recognize.

“You can’t save him,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is you’re doing, it isn’t going to work.”

Adam stared pointedly at his hands. “I have to try,” he said, keeping his face blank and his voice level.

“And even if you save him, look at his hands. He won’t be able to do magic anymore.”

“Then he’ll find a new way of doing magic.”

“He’s going to die.”

“Clip the damn hair, Kostja!” Adam finally snapped and Kostja, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. He produced a knife from a hidden sleeve pocket and with a flash, slashed off a few strands of Teddy’s hair.

He dropped them in the flask, which he held over Adam’s hands and Teddy’s body. Mist curled over the brim and crept heavily down the sides, blanketing the skin of Adam’s hands with cold.

“You know when to pour?” Adam asked as he sped through the spell.

Kostja nodded. “At the triphasic juncture, when the spell’s most exothermic. You need the heat sink.”

“Clever boy,” Adam said and then, more solemnly, “Thank you for doing this.”

“You’re welcome,” Kostja said as he tipped the flask over and the liquid nitrogen splashed over Adam’s hands. It floated around his wrists and between fingers in a twisting ribbon, like a thin floating stream swirling around his hands, drawing out heat without touching skin.

“I’m sorry about what I said. I just…” Kostja sniffled and looked away. “I don’t want him to die.”

“I know. Me too,” Adam said quietly. "It'll work. It has to. There's always hope."

Kostja’s eyes flitted back to meet his. “Hope is for children,” he said, voice lifeless and eyes sharp and glittering in the moonlight, like something made of steel—or perhaps broken glass or something that held a jaded brilliance, like tarnished gold.

 

Teddy died sometime that night.

There was nothing to mark it. No clap of thunder or blaze of light to mark the passing of the last member of House Sutanto. No clue at all that the world had been rearranged, that it went to sleep one thing and woke up another.

But Adam knew anyway. He knew when he saw Cassie’s tear-stricken face as she forced her way into his room, when he heard the plaintive singing of the surviving Seven filling the halls as he dragged himself all the way to the infirmary, when he found the lifeless body, pale and stiff in its bed.

Those who said that the dead resembled the sleeping lied. Sleep was the flutter of eyelids, the slow rise and fall of a chest, and soft words spoken between breaths. But this... _stillness.._. it was a hole in the world, a separation, an absence. It made you think, _he’s not here anymore_.

_He’s not here anymore. He’s… elsewhere… nowhere…_

There’s no more Teddy. Gone. Snuffed out like a candle flame. Adam would never hear his voice again, or hear him laugh, or argue with him, or tell him to give him back his damn phone. He’d never see him smile again, never look into those eyes again, such blue eyes that reminded him of another sky, a gentler sky, the sky of a better, kinder world.

They didn’t make a ceremony out of it. One moment the body was there, and the next it was gone—vanished to Cape Hope, where all members of the Seven were laid to rest.

Adam wondered what wondrous fantastical structures would sprout around the resting place of Kristian ‘Teddy’ Sutanto. He imagined it might be another statuary: Teddy’s likeness standing between his Po and Gong, holding their hands as he smiled forever that boyish grin of his. Or perhaps it would be an arcade, filled with carnival booths and video games, all flashing lights and blaring techno-music.

But in the end, what did it really matter?

Not one bit.

Not one bit at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things have happened recently in my personal life and I haven't been feeling well lately, emotionally speaking, so I may not have been giving this fic the attention and dedication that I might have wanted. I fear that the story and/or writing might have suffered as a result and so I might end up doing major edits for this chapter later. Hopefully y'all enjoyed this update and, as usual, let me know what you think, here or on tumblr. Have a great day. :)


	16. The Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of tragedy, things fall apart and are put together again.
> 
> Elsewhere, a boy wakes in a dead world.

Adam leaned over the stone balustrade and considered the crowd amassed outside the castle gates. Even up high in the jut of his balcony, in the comfort and safe distance of his chambers, the sight sent shivers down his spine; phantom sensations skittered over his skin—grimy fingers grasping, slithering, grabbing for him, the stink of wretched sweetness. There were probably a few thousand of them, with about a quarter held aloft in the air, floating ghost-like as they waited patiently for news from the castle.

He remembered the darkness, the pressing quiet of an ocean floor, and he turned away, suddenly feeling sick and overwhelmed by the urge to throw up.

“Army,” Eli said absently. He clicked his tongue as he turned to follow.

Adam looked over his shoulder, an eye brow arching. He offered an arm and guided the other man to the table where Sami had left their day’s rations. “Not an army, Eli,” he said. “Mystics.”

Eli rolled his eyes and fixed him a meaningful look. “Army,” he said again with an air of finality.

Word of the death of one of the Seven had spread throughout Genosha and the rest of the world in a matter of hours. By mid-morning, mystics of every stripe and order had gathered outside the castle. A few had come from the city, most had ridden the winds from other secret sanctuaries of the Earth, and a handful even came by portal, but all carried the same sentiment: the First Seven was broken and the old ways were dead; if there were ever a time for a magical _perestroika_ , it was now. They had made the journey to pledge fealty to the new Sorcerer Supreme and as a unified—but unspoken—challenge to the power of the Seven. Of course, for those few true believers who had come to pay respect to the last scion of House Sutanto, they had come too late; by the time the first mage stepped through a rip in the sky, Kristian "Teddy" Sutanto's body had long vanished to Cape Hope.

Now, they clamored—clamored, that was, in the most clamorous way the stoic mystic could clamor—for their Sorcerer Supreme, whom the Seven had staunchly kept confined to the castle and in whose absence they held court. The spell that made Tommy conduit to the Supremacy, they reasoned, was a precarious secret to be guarded at all cost; it was a fragile spell to begin with and they couldn’t risk arousing panic in the magical community that magic could fail again anytime. They were wary enough of these whispers—demands, really—of a renaissance in the magical world; they couldn't risk rousing some renegade mage to some noble act of stupidity like trying to fix magic on his own..

Max and Tommy had agreed to Adam's confinement too, though for different reasons. Since that episode the other day, they thought it best he be kept away from big crowds, at least until the shock of Teddy's death subsided. Adam bristled at the sentiment, of course, and he resented how his protection had become everyone's top priority, when Genosha had just gone through its own calamity, when so many who should be alive were dead.

Who was he to survive, anyway? He was nobody. A fake. A mask. Someone made up. There were so many who were so much more deserving to be alive than him.

Yet despite all that, he was too tired and too hurt to fight. So he folded into himself, allowed the rage and the grief to shape the moments and the minutes into such a state of contradiction that he hardly felt anything at all.

“It’s a _coup_ ,” Amanda said curtly, squinting her eyes at the unmoving mass. Her red hair fluttered in the wind like fire lapping the blue sky and her deadly fingers twitched by her sides, making sparks. Shielding spells, mostly. Traps. Alarms. Very low arcana. “They can sense that the Supremacy is weak.”

Adam nibbled absently on a piece of toast. His stomach protested the food and he felt sick just to swallow a bite. “What do they want?” he asked as he abandoned the toast and took a sip of coffee instead, gone cold now. “Form a new Seven?”

“Yes.”

Adam chuckled a single empty chuckle. “And how are they gonna do that? Marry into your families?” It was a violent thought and he shouldn’t be laughing, but the thought of anyone attempting to force these children to do anything they didn’t wish to do… well, god have mercy on the poor soul who tried.

“Worse,” she said bitterly. “They want to…” Her face twisted in disgust. “They want the right to _vote._ ”

Adam snorted and rolled his eyes. The bloodlines of the First Seven were privileged by matrilineal DNA; it was by dint of inherited mystic prowess that they held sway over the rest of the magical community. Even in the millennia of their absence, when they had shrouded their thrones in shadows and had ruled the world in secrecy, it was by the strength of their blood magic that they enforced their will. It was an inherited sovereignty, the unspoken forces that moved the civilizations of the earth, a power that democracy could never hope to usurp.

“Rain?” Eli piped up, poking Adam’s arm and looking at him imploringly. “Where is rain?”

Amanda frowned and turned up a hand to the sky. “It’s clear.”

“He means Ruixian,” Adam explained. He placed a consoling hand on Eli’s arm and squeezed. “He’s looking for her.”

“We haven’t found her, Heir Supreme.”

Adam nodded as he took another sip.

“And Hawkeye?”

“No news either. We think they’re shielded.”

Adam nodded again, frustrated in the knowledge that there was nothing he could do about it.

Satisfied with her work with the shields, Amanda turned around and leaned against the balustrade. With an expert twist of her hand, the wind stilled so her hair and white dress fell softly in place, driven by invisible forces until her dress was smooth and her hair had gathered on top of her head in an elegant pile. She smiled at him as she tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

“Thank you,” he said. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “Look, Amanda. I’m sorry.”

And at that, her face fell.

“I’m sorry about Teddy. I know you probably want to be somewhere else right now and—”

“Please,” she cut in, holding up a hand and shaking her head. “Please, don’t. We will grieve in our own time and in our own way. But if our brother's death were to mean anything, we have to see this through. So, please. Not right now.”

He saw her lips quiver, her eyes fall to the ground. “All right,” he said quietly. “I just…” He paused again and closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded graciously and bit her lip. “We knew what we were getting into,” she said. “Even before they cast the spell, Teddy told everyone. He told the Families that by the time you truly Ascend, there would only be Six.”

Adam nodded to himself, wondering briefly if Teddy had known all along that it would be him.

“Rain?” Eli asked again. “No Rain?”

Adam smiled weakly at his friend. “Not today, Eli. Maybe tomorrow.”

Eli pouted. They turned back to their food and shared their meal in silence.

By the time Anita came to take Amanda's post, the sun had sunk low in the sky. Adam apologized to her about Teddy too, as he would again with the rest of them in the following days. And they would all have that same look of resignation and subdued grief and they would respond, more or less, with some permutation of the same practiced words: that they’d always known and that it wasn't the time.

That first night after Teddy died, he only had Sami, Nate, and Eli for dinner. They all dealt with it in different ways, he supposed. Tommy had run off to the west, weeding out the last remaining mutate nests in the extensive underground cave system, while Cassie threw herself at the rescue efforts down in Hammer Bay. She would tell him later that when the mutates had descended upon the city, many Genoshans were stranded and had holed up instead in the derelict buildings; even now, some were remained trapped under rubble and collapsed concrete.

Sami, Nate, and, of course, Eli remained in the castle and during that first dinner in Adam's rooms, no one said a word or as much as look up from the gray mush in their aluminum boxes. Not Sami, who knew well enough not to give his plastic smile, nor Nate, who sometimes ironically still failed to grasp the concept of timing, nor Eli, who still had great sense despite his poverty in language. And when they were done, they exchanged meek goodnight’s and went their separate ways: Eli to his own rooms, Nate to his tower to continue working on his suit, and Sami to a Council meeting to report on the current state of rations, shelter, medicine, and other emergency response logistics. Only Georgina remained, who floated quietly as she trailed behind like a second shadow.

As for Adam, it had been a good day for his leg so he decided to take a stroll through the upper gardens, relishing the cold air and the heady scent of _Dama de Noche_ that Tommy had transplanted for him in memory of _Le Jardin._ The stars were out that night but he found that he couldn’t stand the darkness anymore, which reminded him too much of that bottomless ocean pit and the maddening stillness in those depths. He remembered too how the waters had risen so high to his sides, towering so that when he looked up, they blot out the light of the sun... so high that in that stars appeared in the gap overhead even though it was the middle of the day. He lasted only a few minutes. He returned quickly to his own room, staving off the mounting panic by talking to Georgina the whole way back.

The memory terrified him. His heart raced and cold sweat broke over his skin. He decided he wouldn’t sleep, so he busied himself with the book that Tommy had given him and began to map out the spell inside. He kept at it for hours, the equations always slipping from him as soon as he thought he’d caught a sniff of their purpose. It was hard work. Slowly— _glacially_ —he learned to recognize the parts that defended with psychological magic, glossing over them without fully constructing the concepts in his head, and he managed to eke some vague sense of the general topography. He drew out the projected spellform on a large construction paper he had laid out on the floor, scribbling notes along the margins, along spell lines, and beside the vertices where the lines met:

 _…math. base-shift 10_ _à 7 (!!!check number theory for corresponding effect!!!)…_

_…self-reflexive verb here (mark with *)…_

_…*…_

_…Form progression: 27c-8-12-12’-78c-78-78’ 3 rd-ord. funct. in classical anisotropic movement…_

_…*…_

_…*…_

_…Truncated Form 99, coupled with Form Gemini… recurr. funct. en Mouvement de Fermat… (Check with Seven if Fourier approach is better? Suspect decryption spell may help too.)_

_…*…_

_…*…_

The self-reflexive verb inserts went on and on, filling beside just about every spell line. He frowned at the unfolding geometry.

 _…intransitive vectors in nominative Forms? No specified object!_ he wrote out in full in big, blocky letters in one corner. Red marker. Underlined twice. And then, frowning, he added:  _Dependent clauses that describe themselves?_

His frown deepened. _Wtf?_ he added for emphasis.

That last one was especially weird. A self-asserting framework without an accusative complement. It was not only confusing, it was... pointless. A spell that had no purpose? Magic that existed… for the sake of existing?

He sighed, massaging his left arm. Under the bandages, the wound was beginning to sting again, and a headache pinched between his eyebrows. He looked up, closed his eyes, and stretched his arms, savoring the pop of bones as he twisted and turned. He picked up the notebook again, read a few lines, and then bent over to continue his work.

He hardly noticed when Kostja took over Georgina sometime past midnight. The child hovered behind him, a few feet back, no doubt looking over his shoulder to check out the spell that he was trying to map. If he had any thoughts about it, he didn’t share. Though occasionally, he would hear a hum or the click of a tongue but he learned to quickly ignore that too.

It was then no wonder that he almost jumped when he heard the knock. He had been rubbing his eyes, trying to clear the numbers and vectors out, and the sudden break in silence caught him by surprise. He turned to the door, glaring, as he pressed idly on his left forearm to alleviate the itch.

“Could you—” he began to say, only to realize that Kostja had vanished. “Some security detail,” he muttered as he put on his glasses and rose to his feet. He checked the time—half-past two—and scowled as he padded over to the door. Fucking Tommy probably wanted to sleep in his room again.

He threw open the door and put on his best voice of annoyance.

“I hope you at least showered because I just had the sheets changed and—”

His body stiffened defensively and he almost attacked the man standing in front of him, who turned out not to be Tommy but Sami, slack-jawed and wide-eyed with surprise. He still had a fist raised, halfway to giving the door another knock... a fist which Adam had almost mistaken to be meant for his face.

“Uh. Sorry were… were you… uh... ahem!” He stood up straight and ran his hand back over his hair. He cleared his throat, an attempt to gather his dignity. “Sorry, were you expecting someone?”

“Uh…” Adam frowned, a little confused. “No. I thought you were Tommy.”

Sami blinked, flummoxed. “Oh. You two…” He looked around, looking thoroughly out of place. “I uh… I’ll go then.”

 _Wait, what?_ _What the fuck’s happening?_

“You guys, uh, have fun.”

“Wait.” Adam grabbed his arm and sighed. “Stay. Come in.”

Sami’s eyes flew wide open. “No, no, no, no! I don’t wanna be in the middle of—”

“Jesus Christ.” Adam rolled his eyes as he dragged the other man through the door. “Does everyone around here just _assume_ that I’m fucking my brother?”

He closed the door behind him and tugged on Sami’s clothes. They were naked before they reached the bed.

 

_It was a dead world._

_There was no color here. No smell. No wind. Even the clouds overhead didn’t move. No signs of life either. A perfect silence. A perfect stillness._

_Instead, there was ash. Ash everywhere. It blanketed the ground and floated in the air, undisturbed, choking the atmosphere so that what little light there was filtered down in a gray, overcast sheet. The sun, perhaps literally, hung limply in the sky, a dead thing trapped in a thick preservative, sallow and eternally suspended. He imagined it had put up a fight, a struggle against the lethargy that had befallen this world, only to be caught like a fly in a spider’s web, where It had finally learned to surrender. It might have truly been extinct for millennia now, only survived by its photons still crawling through the viscous space in their long interminable journey to this dead world._

Where am I? _was his first thought. He blinked a few times as though the ash had also settled over his eyes._

_The buildings around him were short and broken, their exposed metal scaffolding reaching impotently for the dead sky like malnourished fingers, and the roads, though smooth, were pocked and littered with crumbled rock and broken concrete._

_He took a step forward and winced at the crackle of crushed gravel beneath his boot. Even the sound felt wrong. Abortive and yet too loud, as though the world had forgotten what it was to make sound and was only now being jarred back to waking, grumpy with deep-seated inertia._

I shouldn’t be here, _was the second thought through his head._

_Even the temperature was wrong. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t cold, but was instead a perfect equilibrium with his skin so that, with neither heat nor gust, he couldn’t feel the air around him at all. What had begun as an uncanny sensation quickly became maddening, as the longer he stayed still, the less certain he was of the demarcations between his body and the rest of the universe. It was as if that comatose air were part of his skin—or rather his skin were part of that air. Where one ended and the other began was an abandoned notion, almost silly in its presumption that the Self could be so conceited as to believe a separate existence from the world._

_He sighed. The air moved with inveterate reluctance. And, as though in response, his mind resumed motion again, its rusted gears creaking as they recalled the urge to spin. The longer he stood still, the surer he was that he would become part of his world and would never move again._

_The feeling vanished as soon as he took another step forward and the air around him stirred thickly again._

This isn’t a memory, _was his third thought as he looked out into the grayness again._

_The ashy air parted before him as he walked forward, sliding hesitantly over his skin with too much shear, and his footfall made echoes that came to his ear too slowly and yet too loudly. He passed through the grid-like streets, saw the same gray deadness left and right, and continued on. The ash on the ground stirred as he passed, swirling up his legs in an elegant gavotte that never returned to the ground, freezing instead mid-air in discrete spirals characteristic of turbulent flow._

Très Van Gogh _, he thought idly._

_The buildings, he realized, broke off at roughly the same height, steel beams curling up in waves like tendrils seeking sky. It was as though someone had taken a swing with a giant sword and had neatly cleaved the city in a horizontal swipe._

_Except for that one. That one skyscraper in the distance, rising, rising, rising, until it breached the exhausted clouds. That was where he was headed. The only logical place he could head to, anyway._

_Alone, he walked the soil of this dead world, eyes fixed at his destination._

_He knew what was waiting for him there, knew it deep in his soul._

_“Teddy,” he said quietly, though it sounded too loud in his ear. Some part of him knew that it had been a long time since a word had been uttered in the universe. The air seemed to ripple at the forgotten phenomenon of words, sound waves warping the stillness almost visibly—his very voice warping reality. Shivers rippled down his skin._

_“Is this your world?”_

 

Sami was asleep, an arm draped over Adam’s chest as he breathed deep and slow against Adam’s skin. Adam traced his features with a lazy finger. He started from the cheekbone and traversed feather-light to the jaw, sliding between the hairs of his beard, before traveling down his smooth neck and across the valley of his back where the spine dipped and curved with Euclidean grace. He listened to the soft breaths and smiled at the tiny shivers that his trailing finger elicited. He studied the planes and curves, committing them to memory and modelling the geometry in equations, as though he might recreate them later in a simulation.

 _If I were to create life_ , he thought idly, _it might look something like this._

He reached for the sheets, which had tangled with their legs and were still damp with sweat, and clung to them for no other reason than to cling to something and keep his body awake.

 _Well, maybe you made this one too,_  whispered an insidious voice in his head.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment—but only for just a moment. Before the thought could take root, he pinched his thigh until it stung sharp enough to draw tears.

“Shit,” he hissed as he wiped his face in the pillow, but thankful for the pain all the same.

There were spells for such things. And he had cast them before, years and years ago: a spell to dispel the call of sleep, coupled with another to keep the mind from breaking. But it was high magic. _Psychological_ magic. The kind of magic that, without a natural inclination, took days to prepare and hours to cast.

_The kind of magic that could get little boys killed._

The memory was a blow but he managed to harden himself before it could land.

 _I have to be strong_. He cast his eyes to the ceiling and the deep shadows within its vaulted height. _Just for a little longer._

He couldn't be helpless. Not anymore. He couldn't let them keep protecting him like he was something fragile instead of the weapon that he truly was.

And yet he was afraid. Broken with a fear that he knew he had to confront, a fear of darkness that hovered above him right then.

He took deep breaths and let his thoughts drift past the ceiling, floating up and up and up above the castle spires and the clouds until he could imagine himself standing on top of the world. Until he was somewhere else entirely. Beneath his feet, the atmosphere was a fragile shell, so precious and breakable and above him, the stars were a cornucopia of beauty and light. He couldn’t help but imagine what stories were unfolding right then across the great expanse of space. While he lay there in bed, alien travelers were exploring their galaxies, alien children were laughing and playing and falling in love. Alien heroes were having adventures and saving worlds.

He’d had adventures out there too, he knew, but couldn’t remember any of it now. So in place of memory, he turned to imagination, picturing invented worlds and daring battles and ill-fated romances. The hero in his red cloak—himself, of course—with his masquerading warrior prince by his side. All the stuff of good adventures.

It was almost too easy to forget that between those cold pinprick lights, lurking in the dark, an army was hurtling towards his world, ready to make war.

“Little mage,” Sami said suddenly, as he yawned and nuzzled into Adam’s hair. "Teach me magic."

“What?” Adam blinked back, withdrawing his thoughts to the ground.

He felt Sami smile against his ear, lips grazing the tender skin. He closed his eyes and shivered, relishing the goose bumps prickling down the back of his neck.

“Magic,” Sami said again, his breath warm and sweet with wine. “You said you’d teach me.”

“I did?” Adam gave in to the feeling. The flood of blood and heat to his face. The hair on his arms raising. He turned his head and dragged his lip across Sami’s jaw. “Magic?”

Sami pulled away just an inch or so and then turned completely to lie on his back, a pleased look spreading on his face. Smug and self-assured just as Adam had first met him.

“That wasn’t really…” Adam started before drifting off. “Okay,” he said, turning back towards the dark ceiling. He lifted his right hand and made a Form. "Try this.”

Sami stirred beside him and raised his own hand. It was bigger than Adam’s, bulkier and stiffer in its otherwise astutely copied Form, but the fingers were long and elegant. It was not a hand made for magic but a hand meant instead for holding other hands and cradling faces and tangling itself through hair.

“Now, slide to this… and then this…. and then… this. Follow the transitions closely and make it snap.”

The space above them lit up as a ribbon of blue and gold erupted from his fingertips and rippled through the air, wavering like a piece of gossamer. Adam squinted as he made a pinch-twist-lift gesture with his thumb and middle finger; the light dimmed until it was a comfortable glow.

“Your turn.” He grinned at Sami’s awed face, glowing under the conjured Borealis.

“Like this?”

Sami performed the sequence, siding from Form to Form to Form in surprisingly perfect mimicry.

“Good memory,” Adam said, though nothing happened. “Yeah, just like that. But when you make the second Form, make palm horizontal to the ground.”

“Well, that's disappointing. It didn’t work.” Sami pouted, tried again, and let his hand fall to the bed in defeat.

Adam chuckled, turned on his side, and placed a hand on the Inhuman’s chest. “I think I know why,” he murmured as he rolled the chain of the suppressor collar between his fingers.

Sami placed a hand on top of his. “I…” he swallowed, voice breaking as Adam’s hand stilled. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

Adam shrugged as he studied Sami’s face, the contours of its sharp lines casting shadows over his features, lips that looked soft even in the dark and half-lidded eyes heavy with sleep. “Hey, hey. Don't worry about it. It’s okay,” he said without lying. Whatever it was that made Sami keep that thing around his neck, he wanted to respect it. “I get it.” Also, he didn't really care too much about it.

Sami nodded and heaved a deep sigh. “What is magic?” he asked after a long pause.

“Hmm?”

“What is magic?”

Adam yawned as he considered his answer.

“Um… well, it’s a… an effect? I can’t really… I don’t really know what you're asking… I’ve never really thought about it.”

Sami turned to him and flashed an incredulous look. “Really?”

“Yeah… I mean, I know what it can do. But I don’t know _what_ magic actually is.”

Sami raised an eyebrow but his gaze remained soft and patient. “I'm sure you have theories.”

“Well…” Adam bit his lip as he rifled through his memory. “Magic’s hard to define but many philosophers have tried. My old teacher, Strange, he believed that any magic falls under one of three kinds. Roughly, anyway.” Funny, the sort of things that survived a memory spell. Things that were important and yet… not. “There’s Formal magic, which is basically structured magic.”

“Like this one?” Sami’s hand flourished again. And again, he groaned when nothing happened.

“Yeah." Adam smiled. "In theory, anyone could do it as long as they fulfill the trifecta: understanding, intent, and translation. But I suspect a fourth one.”

“What's the fourth?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just call it an _It_ factor. Something to explain why I can do magic and you can’t.”

“Which is?”

Adam grinned. “That I’m awesome and you suck.”

Sami snorted. “Okay, hot shot,” he teased. “Go on.”

“Well, first is understanding. You have to be clear in what you want.” Adam took one of Sami’s hands and traced the lines on his palm with his finger. “You need to understand the mathematical relations that you’re invoking and how they relate to the change in reality that you want to effect. Like for this one, it works by invoking Maxwell’s equations to project a photon stream and then diffracting the light by playing around with the air’s refractive index.” He did the charm again, pausing in-between Forms. “The transition between Form’s important too 'cos that's what helps define the equations. For a kinetic spell, you’ll need to define inertial frames and force trajectories in your head. That sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

Adam nodded. “Formal magic is a very cerebral practice. But at the same time, it’s also emotional. You have to mean it. Requirement number two: intent.” He let his hand fall away on Sami’s chest and drummed his fingers against the heartbeat. “You can’t lie with magic.” He paused his fingers, felt the thudding against the tips. “You have to _want_  it bad enough to sacrifice something for it. And then, there’s translation… the part where you physically express the ideas and desires that you’ve defined in your head.” He paused again, considering. “I suppose in that sense magic is the process of concretizing the abstract. An imagined state effecting an actual change in our physical reality. Translation bridges the gap between metaphysical and physical. Like in a ritual spell, it works by imbuing metaphors in physical objects or gestures to represent your intent. That way, the abstract in the mage’s mind is brought out into reality through the physical-metaphysical liminal state. There’s no one way to do it; you can even make up your own system as long as you’re consistent. We mages use our fingers because they’re nimble and quick enough to physically represent the mathematical constructs we need.”

Sami held Adam’s fingers in his hand and ran a thumb over them. “These little things?” he murmured.

Adam smiled. “Or I could just write down the equations in a piece of paper and set the paper aflame to cast the spell." He shrugged. "Whatever works. After Formal magic, there’s Natural magic—or Wild magic—depends on who you ask. Seers, prophets, mediums… Innate magical abilities. Like eye color. Mystics like to think that these powers are a mark of magic’s favor but I think they’re just personality traits that have been magnified. Like… like maybe an orphan… maybe he grows up always wondering where he came from and eventually he becomes a seer. He’ll have the ability to hold an object in his hands and _see_ its history.”

“How… maudlin,” Sami said, eyes drooping now. “And what’s the third kind?”

“Chaos,” Adam said, more quietly and with more gravity than he’d intended. “Or Fate magic. Pure, unfettered magic. Magic that bends reality around whims and fears, without understanding or ritual. The very act of wishing or wanting becomes translation. It’s magic at its most petulant form.”

Sami was quiet for a long time and just as Adam thought that he might have fallen back asleep, he stirred and yawned. He turned to his side and faced Adam again.

“You use Chaos magic, right?” he said quietly, and even though his tone was perfectly calm and his face was perfectly smooth, Adam couldn’t help but take the question as an accusation.

“I did,” Adam said. “I mean I still do. Sometimes.” The day was beginning to turn, lightening the room from dark to mellow with dim shapes and soft edges. “I was afraid of it, but I used it when I needed to. They used to call me—”

“Scarlet Heir,” Sami said, the words spoken soft as a breath, almost reverently. He smiled again and his face softened into something wondrous and vulnerable.

“Yeah.”

Down in the city, a flock of birds had begun to sing, marking the beginning of a new day, and above them, the pink light of dawn burned away the blue-gold borealis.

“Hey,” Adam said as he drew an arm under his head. “Thanks for staying up and um… for letting me ramble. I’m… uh… sorry, you didn’t get much sleep.”

Sami shrugged and gave a lopsided smile. His real smile. It reminded Adam of someone he couldn't name. “Couldn’t really sleep anyway.”

Adam returned the smile but didn’t know what else to say.

But thankfully Sami, always the perfect host, knew just how to fill the silence.

“Come on,” he said, burying his hand in Adam’s hair and drawing him close. “Let’s not sleep again.”

 

“Well?” Nate asked. “What do you think?”

Adam paused beside one of the mirrors lining the hall. He leaned forward and stared at his reflection. “I mean… it’s not terrible…” he mumbled, turning his head left and right as he inspected Nate’s work. “Better than expected.”

Nate made an offended sound. “You thought this just grows out naturally like this?” His reflection raised an eyebrow as it ran its fingers through its own hair, preening and looking self-satisfied.

“I thought Kang wears a hat for a reason,” Adam muttered.

Nate gave his shoulder a light punch and ran his fingers through Adam's hair again, checking the length and admiring his work. Adam winced as a tangled lock snagged and pulled at his scalp wound.

“How is it?” Adam directed the question at his grandfather’s reflection.

“Much better,” Max said indifferently. He touched Adam’s elbow and veered him away from the mirror, resuming their journey down the hall where the retinue was waiting.

Today, his grandfather was in the full regalia of his office: black dress shirt lined with silvery buttons and golden epaulets, black pants, and a red sash cutting across diagonally across his shoulder and another for a belt. Over his left breast, he bore the twin insignias of Genosha and the House of Magnus, the first above the second, and upon his brow, an elegant crown of pure iron—infinitely more precious to Magneto than its equivalent in gold—wound its way around his head, pitch-black against his skin-tight skull. Inside the heavy, scarlet robe, he looked very much like the Lord of Genosha.

“Thanks.” Adam chewed on his lip and frowned thoughtfully. He had to admit: in his royal garb, Max Eisenhardt cut a formidable figure—though perhaps in a necromantic sort of way, like… like a lich king. “When do you leave?”

Max checked his watch. “The envoy arrives in an hour.”

Adam nodded. “Does it have to be you? Send a representative. Someone from the council or even Tommy. Hell, send _me_.”

“Come now, Mister Thorne.” Max raised an eyebrow and his lips twisted in an amused smile. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about my safety.”

Flustered, Adam blew away a lock of hair that was no longer there. He glanced again at his reflection in a passing mirror and thought his hair a little too short and too foreign. Like it was someone else's hair sitting on his head. And it was too similar to Nate’s; if he squinted, they could have passed off for cousins.

“Well I think you look like shit,” Tommy offered, even though he had asked Nate to cut his hair to the same style.

“Thank you,” Adam said dryly, as Nate looked over at Tommy and glared.

“It’s not the hair,” Tommy explained, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Well, it isn’t _just_ the hair. You been staying up again?”

Adam shrugged nonchalantly and didn’t meet his brother’s eyes.

“Where is this meeting supposed to be?” he asked instead.

“Supposedly a neutral ground,” Max said, a little skeptically.

“Right,” Adam scoffed. And then, a little uncertainly, added, “really?”

Max shot him a withering look. “Of course not,” he said, shaking his head at Adam in profound disappointment. _Oh, woe._  “They’re saying we’re behind the mutate attacks.”

“Our _casus belli_ ,” Adam said. "I guess it makes sense. Considering your histo—" his hand flicked to his grandfather, waving up and down. He caught himself, a little too late, and pulled back his hand. "Never mind."

“No, no." Now, Max smiled. "You have a point. Old grudges. Precisely all that. My going personally shows good faith. Besides, I won’t be unprotected.”

They stepped out into the open air of the gardens behind the castle. Adam shielded his eyes from the sun and saw overhead the aqueducts that guided the water from the dam to the castle. It was still a majestic sight... the towering arches and the artful sweeps of carved stone, the water falling where it overflowed.

“Mister Adam! Look! Look at me!” a voice called out through the mists of memory. A small figure. A shadow blocking the glare of the sun, sliding down one of the bridges, legs and arms splayed wide as it crouched and straddled the smooth stone with its bare feet. “Mister Adam!”

“Hey,” Tommy said softly, bumping against Adam's arm. “Come back.”

Adam blinked away the memory, though the shriek of laughter lingered and echoed in his ears.

He looked at Tommy, smiled briefly, then turned his eyes to the bottom of the steps, away from soaring structures and towards the garden. There, the retinue awaited, a small unit of men and women in uniform, sharp-eyed and standing in full attention. The real party was already there too: Councilor Rodriguez looking simultaneously uneasy and game in her old navy uniform and Airika, who was only _Airika_  without a family name and who Sami had told Adam was an Inhuman like him and the _de facto_ head of the emerging Sanctuaire conglomeration.

“You people call that good faith?” Adam snorted, as he eyed the assembled super powers. 

Max smiled his thin, skin-splitting smile. “Diplomacy and deterrence go hand-in-hand,” he said easily, just as Tommy said, “You have to pay more attention to the Council meetings.”

Adam’s eyebrows twitched reflexively but he managed to ignore the bait. “It’s a bit much,” he said carefully. “I understand the need for a show of force but...”

He didn't know what Airika could do but he'd heard Council Rodriguez had single-handedly held off the mutates while the castle was evacuating.

Max sighed. “We’re convening on neutral ground,” he said again. “But you don’t get to my age without being cautious. You know, in all my decades, I’ve only died a couple of times?”

Adam allowed himself a small smile. "Well, I guess paranoia looks good on you."

As they reached the bottom of the steps, the gathered contingent snapped to a crisp salute, which they returned—Max and Tommy readily and Adam awkwardly.

He recognized some of the other faces from a Council ceremony the other day, one particularly long afternoon of handshakes and paraded names, formally honoring the ‘heroes’ of the repelled invasion. He noticed that they all wore the conferred medal.

“How are you holding up?” Max asked, his voice suddenly soft.

Adam kept his eyes forward, adamantly refusing to look at his grandfather. “I’m fine,” he said, even as his left arm throbbed under his sleeve. The memory of a failed spell. Too little. Too late.

“He’s a hero, Adam,” Max went on. “We all live in debt.”

“Did you know?” Adam asked suddenly, his voice sharp and cold. The suspicion had snuck up on him, quick as a knife in the back.

Without saying a word, Max placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him around, forcing Adam to look into those dark, sunken eyes of his. They were soft... but not sad. Tired, maybe, but not sad. How many people had Max Eisenhardt lost? How many Teddy’s had he seen die?

Adam’s heart was racing and his blood had pooled in his ears. There were suddenly too many people and the world was too big. Above him, the sky yawned like a mouth bracing to swallow him. His skin prickled, breaking in a cold sweat, and a ringing filled his ears as the world tilted under his feet and his knees began to buckle.

Then, in a gesture that surprised him, his grandfather drew him into a hug. “I’m sorry, Adam,” the old man whispered, his bony arms wrapping weakly around Adam's shaking frame.

And Adam, dumbfounded, drew a sharp breath and stood ramrod straight, his own arms bent uncertainly at his sides.

He looked to Tommy, who was watching the spectacle unfold with a carefully neutral expression. He looked in surprise at his brother face, whose best advice came in the form of a shrug, and then his gaze drifted to the gathered contingent, to their shocked but polite faces, and decided, abortively, to return the hug.

His eyes fluttered closed and for a moment, he allowed himself to sink into Max’s bony chest. When they finally pulled apart, the world was just the world again and all impositions of fear had vanished. He took a deep breath, clean air filling his lungs, and exhaled.

“Take care of each other,” Max said, placing his other hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

The twins nodded.

“Good luck,” Tommy said, taking Adam’s hand and pulling them both back a few steps. “Fix our home.”

Scandalized eyes flitted to their joined hands but no one dared say a thing. A few cleared their throats. Someone gasped. Nate and a few others turned away. Max, however, shot Tommy a pointed look.

Something passed between them. The cold, quiet moment of an old argument Adam wasn’t privy to. He felt Tommy’s hand squeeze—although whom exactly it was supposed to reassure, he wasn't sure so he decided to simply squeeze back.

“Thank you. I will,” Max said finally, before turning away.

He lifted his hands, in a way a conductor might, and a warbled sound broke the air, like a giant metal sheet warping.

Max and his party floated off the ground. “Don’t get in trouble,” he said as he looked over his shoulder and shot Tommy another look. “I mean it.”

And just like that, they were gone. With nothing but the crack of a whip and a sudden gust, the Lord of Genosha and his retinue departed.

It was like touching _thunder_. The vibration shook Adam’s bones and the abrupt displacement of air stung his face and kicked up a cloud of dust. When it finally cleared, it was just the three of them: he, Tommy, and Nate. Far off, fast approaching the horizon, was a black speck, barely visible against the pale blue.

With a sigh, Adam looked over his shoulder, searching for signs of one of the Seven. If his count were right, it should be Samantha’s watch now. They were still following him, he was sure, his _bodyguards._ They didn’t fool him, though. He knew they were really there to keep him from doing anything stupid.

Like a resurrection spell.

His arm throbbed at the thought.

They were wrong, of course. It wasn't that he didn't want to try—of course, he did; he had already done the calculations, had plotted out the basic spellform. No, he  _would have_ tried had he been able to but the truth was a denial almost elegant in its simplicity. A brutal brevity. It was a spell beyond even the powers of an Heir, maybe even that of the Sorcerer Supreme's. In the end, it was a matter of equilibrium: Teddy was the last of his kind, the final heir to a line of mages that wielded power over time itself. And he was one of the last Seven, which held significant weight in the cosmic scale of things. To restore Teddy was to restore the Seven, which meant it wasn't simply the resurrection of an individual soul but a gross rearrangement of the cosmic order as well. And what could Adam Thorne, the shadow of a person, offer in exchange for such a feat? What possession did he have that would amount to the life of this one little boy and the legacy he carried? Not a damn thing, he thought. Not even his own fabricated life.

He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. It was hard to do with one hand. “You want to tell me what that's all about?” he asked Tommy, eyeing him sideways.

His brother grinned and blinked his eyes a few times.

“What?”

Without warning, Tommy swooped him off his feet and held him bridal style.

“Tommy!” Adam yelped. "What the fuck!" Somewhere behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a mage swooping in from the sky.

Tommy winked at him as his body tilted forward. “Brace yourself."

And that was all the warning Adam had.

 

They slammed back to the ground a couple of minutes later and Adam’s first thought as the world unswirled and resettled around him was that Tommy was verifiably insane.

His second thought was more clinical. He thought that if Tommy were a true speedster, the momentum would have killed him instantly; he’d have been reduced to a nice red splatter on his brother's shirt. He was beginning to understand how his powers worked, how they were really just a small manifestation of a larger power, entropy. Like how a fish might see the finger of a child, poking through the surface of the water. That’s why the initial acceleration hadn’t decapitated him either—or why the friction against the onslaught of air particles didn’t rip his skin. Still, it was a little bizarre that his brain didn’t see the world slow down, how it was all still a blur.

“Where are we?” he asked, putting the thoughts aside as Tommy put him down on his feet.

The room in which they now found themselves was dark and damp, all cobblestone and moss like a dungeon. The air, which was dank and stale, agreed with the speculation.

“Carrion Cove,” he guessed.

Tommy clicked his fingers and his eyes flashed green. Torches erupted in quick succession, dousing the passageway in front of them with yellow light. Behind them was a crack in the cave's wall, through which they must have made their entrance.

“Come on,” Tommy said, taking the lead.

The silence was a heavy thing, punctuated only by the muted fall of their boots on the ground. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

“Wanna tell me what’s going on, Tommy?” Adam asked.

“It’s a surprise.”

Adam nodded but didn’t push. Somehow, he knew that it wasn’t the kind he’d like.

“You’ll tell me if your leg's hurting, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you have your cane?”

Adam reached into his pocket and produced the metal stick. “Yes, mom.” He flicked it to the side, where it extended to its full length with a series of clicks.

“Good, good." Another silence. _Thud. Thud. Thud._  "So anyway, I hear you’re consorting with demons now.”

Adam snorted. “ _Consorting_? Really?” Absently, he retracted the stick and returned it in his pocket.

He watched his brother’s shoulders rise and fall in a too casual shrug.

“With Inhumans too.”

“Sami's a prodigy, you know?" he said, parrying the jibe. "A virtuoso. A true savant with his cock."

Tommy made a face. "Gross."

Adam smiled victoriously. "Who the fuck told you, anyway? Kostja?” He’s gonna kill the kid when got back.

Tommy arched an eyebrow and rolled his eyes. “Look. I’m obviously glad that you’re getting laid, little bro.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere—no, please, don’t. I heard it the moment I said it.”

“But!” Tommy lifted a finger for emphasis. “And I’m assuming it’s a pretty nice butt! I hope you know that whatever it is that’s happening between the two of you, it can’t last.”

Adam snorted and rolled his eyes.

“It’s _just_ sex. Nothing’s _happening_ between us,” he insisted, emphasizing the words.

Tommy slowed down until they were walking side by side.

“They told me what happens if you Ascend," he said quietly, each word slow and deliberate.

Adam looked away. “What about it?”

“Is it true?”

Adam could feel his brother’s eyes on him, boring holes through his cheek.

“Is what true?”

“That you’ll forget? Forget being Adam Thorne?”

Their path ended in front of a smooth wall. Adam folded his arms across his chest as Tommy felt the wall for a hidden switch.

“Well?” he asked, as he slid his hands around. "Is it true?"

“It’s a possibility,” Adam said. He swallowed the knot forming in his throat and glanced over his shoulder again. Somewhere out there, Samantha was watching over them, polite enough not to follow inside the cave but not to the point of giving them real privacy.

Tommy paused and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breaths, careful and slow. The torch fire crackled in the dark, casting their faces in flickering shadows.

“Will you forget about Sami?” he asked in a steady, toneless voice. _Will you forget about me?_

“I don’t know,” Adam lied. _Not in the way you think._

Tommy nodded, his eyes soft and faraway. Then, his expression hardened into something unreadable and he gave another, stiffer nod.

“Come on,” he said, finding the switch. The stone groaned as it slid to the left, revealing a vast, brightly lit chamber. A humid breeze sighed into the corridor, a pungent assault of piss and feces underscoring something sugary and—

“Tommy, what have you done?” Adam asked, voice low and urgent as his knees turned weak and he cowered instinctively. His eyes watered at the unbearable sweetness as he staggered a couple of steps back. It was too much all at once and he was overcome by a sudden dizziness that threatened to make him heave.

“Relax,” Tommy said, catching his elbow and propping him up. “I’ve got you, baby brother.”

Adam nodded, eyes glued to the ground. In his head, the shrieking had already begun.

They drifted forward into the light, Tommy leading and Adam soft and pliant in his hands. He could hear other people in the room and underneath it, like white noise, the low and steady buzzing of what he peripherally knew was an electric field.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Tommy said.

Adam looked up and saw him biting his lip. “No, no,” he said abruptly. He straightened his back and gave his cheeks a few pats. “I’m good,” he added with a nod. “Let’s do this.”

Tommy considered him for a moment, before turning around and spreading his arms. “Well, surprise!”

Behind him, a glass wall filled the vast room, spanning from roof to ground. At least a dozen mutates that weren’t mutates swarmed behind, slamming their fists against the transparent wall, black blood oozing out of split veins and frothing at the mouth. Their jaws hung impossibly wide, no doubt screeching, but their cage held in the sound.

“Where are we, Tommy?”

“Somewhere off Carrion Cove. Old military installation not too far from Hammer Bay. Come on.” He wrapped an arm around Adam’s shoulders and led him forward. They were on a raised metallic podium, a semi-circular contraption hugging the walls of the chamber surrounding the cage. Computer screens and various machinery lined the walls, displaying an assortment of readings and graphs that didn't make any sense to Adam, and a row consoles was mounted on the side of the podium closer to the cage.

At the left-hand end of the crescent walkway was a familiar crop of blond hair, fiddling with an array of dials and copying a string of numbers from the screen to a notebook.

“Ted,” Adam breathed out, a little surprised.

The Inhuman turned and looked at him sullenly. He rolled his eyes and wrote something in his notebook:

 _Hello_ , it said, when he turned it towards Adam.

“I didn’t know you’re back on your feet,” Adam said. He tried to sign the sentence but Ted shook his head.

_You would know if you ever visited._

Ted twisted his lips and turned back to the screen before him, where a green sinusoidal curve was snaking its way across a coordinate plane.

“He lost his tongue,” Tommy supplied.

“Yeah. I heard.”

Ted glared at the cage, took a deep breath, and began typing out a series of commands to the computer. He didn’t look too bad. A little leaner than Adam remembered, maybe, but aside from the bandage wrapped around his forehead and the curious, uneasy way his mouth seemed to move (periodically moving side-to-side as though looking for the missing tongue), there was no other physical sign of injury.

 _I have something to show you_ , a second screen flashed, just to Adam’s right. _Watch._

“I guess we’re still calling them mutates, huh?”

Ted gave him a withering look and shrugged again. _The name stuck._

He pressed a button and there was a loud snapping sound, followed abruptly by a hush. Adam felt a sudden unease—a blankness, like a blind spot had appeared in his world and he was suddenly unable to see.

He turned to the cage, where that void had appeared, and saw that the mutates had frozen. They looked at their hands, at each other, confused.

 _I activated a Faraday cage around the cave_ , Ted’s screen explained.

Adam stared at the mutates and frowned. Of course. A Faraday cage. He couldn’t sense the electric fields in the enclosure anymore. Thus, the blind spot.

But whatever effect this had on the mutates was temporary. A few seconds later and they were stirring, agitating themselves with mounting violence until they were throwing themselves against the wall again.

Ted turned back to Adam and Tommy and grimaced.

 _That was weird, right?_ the screen flashed again. _Now watch what happens if I do the same thing again._

He twisted a knob and pulled a lever and the floor began to vibrate as a second glass wall descended slowly from the ceiling, cleaving the mutates into two groups. Ted pressed another button and for a moment, glass walls shimmered.

This time, only one group stopped moving; the other went on wailing, hammering their fists against their prison as though nothing had happened.

Frowning, Adam and Tommy rested their hands on the metal railing and leaned forward to observe the two groups. What was that? Why was only one group affected? Yet soon enough, all the mutates were moving again. Adam turned back to Ted, who was staring intently back at him.

The next question was obvious:

“What happens when you isolate one of them?”

Ted’s lips quirked into a smile and he nodded approvingly.

 _The same thing._ The screen proclaimed, his fingers flying over his keyboard as he typed out his response. _Except_ _they don’t move again._

A second screen flickered to life just beside the one Ted was using to communicate. Inside, a video was playing: a single mutate inside what appeared to be a cell, just large enough to accommodate the mutate's height but not wide enough to lie down.

Tommy stiffened.

“Are you okay?” Adam placed his hand on his brother’s arm.

Cold. Cold and clammy.

Tommy nodded tersely, a little too fast that his face blurred. “I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine,” he said, bug-eyed, and then to Ted, added, "Play it."

With a one-shoulder shrug, Ted turned back indifferently to the controls.

The mutate in the video began thrashing. It clawed at the walls, its face contorted in a silent scream. Then, abruptly, as the Faraday cage activated, it stopped. Its arms fell to its sides as it swayed on its feet. It blinked a few times, turned to the camera, and, most surprisingly, _frowned._

“Whoa,” Adam murmured.

He could see the mutate’s lips moving, shaping words. Its eyes widened in panic, as inside them burned the unmistakable spark of intelligence.

“Councilman Rodriguez thought it could be Arkea,” Tommy said. “Or Sublime.”

Adam nodded, rapt, as he watched the man inside the screen turn to study his hands and arms and then try to scrub the black sludge off them.

“But mutants are immune to those two,” Adam said.

 _Not to mention Arkea and Sublime exert influence telepathically_ , Ted’s screen said. _And not to this degree of biological corruption. When you reported that you disrupted the controlling signal through a randomized E-Field, we started looking into that._

“And?”

_And this is what we found._

Adam released the breath he didn't know he was holding. “They’re not dead, are they?”

_No._

“Or brainwashed.”

 _Nah._   _Whatever this is, we think it’s parasitic. But for some reason, it requires electropathic communication with another infected body._

Tommy was tapping his fingers restlessly against the metal railing. He had turned away from the screen and was looking resolutely, instead, at the mutates behind the glass. Adam could hear the deliberately deep breaths, see the break of sweat on his brow.

“A hive mind?” Tommy asked quietly.

_We don’t know. Maybe your brother should find another demon to consort with._

Adam snorted and flicked the Inhuman’s ear. “I don't think you people know what that word really means.”

“He already found another one, anyway,” Tommy muttered sideways to Ted, who laughed.

“Oh, fuck off, both of you,” Adam said, turning back to the screen where the man was now kneeling on the ground, studying his torn and bleeding arms. “Are you telling me they can be saved?”

Ted shook his head solemnly. _They only last a few hours after isolation. And the infected population attacked the subject when we tried reintegration. The larger collective rejects them, somehow. There's no cure._

“Jesus.”

Ted gave a single sharp nod. _It’s a clever design._

“Design?” Tommy repeated. “You’re saying this is a weapon? Someone _made_ this?”

_I think so, yes._

A weapon... The idea nagged at Adam, something about Teddy… and Ted… Something—

“Hey, Ted..." he began. "What was Teddy doing in your room?”

Ted turned to him, brows pulled together. _What?_

“I found him,” Adam continued, “in your room. What was he doing there?”

Teddy looked down to his lap, thinking.

 _I don’t know_ , he finally replied after a long moment's pause.

“Think!” Adam insisted, his voice rising. He felt Tommy’s hand wrap around his arm, restraining. “Of all the rooms in the castle, why yours? He died there! Why?”

Ted frowned, eyes falling further down to the ground in consternation. Then, his head snapped up, a glimmer of remembrance in his eye. He turned back to the keyboard and began to type frantically.

 _There was a woman_. _Blonde._

“Cassie?” Tommy’s voice had dropped to an urgent whisper. “Was it Cassie?”

Ted shook his head. _Older. Much older. She was looking for someone and then the kid was on her. It was… it was all a blur. I’m sorry I can’t remember_.

“Try,” Adam said.

Ted took a deep breath, paused for a moment. And then, he shook and hung his head in defeat.

With a hiss, Adam pushed Tommy away with a one-handed levitating spell.

"Adam! No!" His brother scrambled as the spell lifted him off the ground and put distance between them. His fingers brushed against Adam's sleeves but didn't find purchase.

Adam's hands snapped and twisted, carving out the Forms in quick and clumsy swipes as he slowly advanced on Ted. His fingers curled and bent and before Ted could get away, he jabbed two fingers in the Inhuman’s forehead.

It was a poorly executed spell but the general structure was enough to take hold. Something leaped from Ted’s head, surging painfully like electricity through Adam’s arm and up his neck. He screamed as he fell to the ground, the plucked memory cleaving and forming synapses as it burned itself into the soft tissues of his brain.

 

The memory was vague, as though clogged with a fog that obscured both sight and sound. It was fear… Ted’s fear, a heavy, choking thing…

A woman, yes… not Cassie… older… A small crowd of… behind her…

The woman was here for something… Ted held out his arms to his sides, something—no, some _one—_ pressing behind him, Adam couldn’t see who… he began to speak, putting power in his voice… half the soldiers behind the woman aimed at their own temples, fired… Ted took another step back… Adam felt wetness in his pants… The woman sneered, made a quick dismissive gesture with a hand, and a man leaped at Ted, slammed his head against the wall… Before he could so much as scream, a sharp pain erupted in his mouth, and he fell to the floor, wide-eyed and bleeding out… The woman stalked over, that hideous sneer still on her red lips.

She was about to speak, when a small mass crashed through the windows, landing softly on its feet as it placed itself between her and Ted. Teddy was a swirl of cloth and magic. Spinning, he threw his hands around him, in that full-body casting style of his. The men and women behind the blonde fell to the ground, their heads clutched in their hands as they screamed a revolting, convulsing scream... a terrible sound that struck the bone and chilled Ted’s blood.

But the woman… she withstood the assault with a wince. She raised a hand, took a step towards Teddy, and then took two steps back. She tried again, only to be repelled by Teddy’s psychological magic. She produced her gun and aimed at Teddy but every time she tried to fire, her own arm drifted up to miss. Finally, she let out a curse and produced a metal device from her pocket. There was a sudden silence when she pressed a button.

The men and women behind her stopped screaming and rose slowly to their feet.

Teddy unleashed another wave of spells but it rolled over them without effect. He took a step back, confused, fingers frozen half-Form as he shifted from psychological magic to kinetics. And in that moment of split-second hesitation, the mutates launched themselves at him.

Too quick! They caught his arms and legs, pinning him to the floor. Whatever psychological wards Teddy had around him had no effect.

His gaze turned to Ted’s direction and past him.

“Run,” the boy said, eyes and voice hollow.

They went for the fingers first and Adam, stuck to the ground in Ted’s body, could only watch as the boy shrieked a long and hideous shriek. There was a scuffle of movement behind Ted and just as everything dissolved to black, Adam caught a glimpse of Eli hobbling out the door.

 

…only the memory didn’t quite end.

He floated in the void, a darkness that pressed around him, heavy as water, while his mouth was aflame with pain. He struggled against the pressure, choking, and when his hands clambered to cast a spell, nothing transpired in the world of the mind.

His lungs burned and he thought he might die of suffocation.

Only he didn’t, which was worse.

 

The first thing he saw when he came to was Samantha’s puckered face looming over him. She had a hand clamped over his forehead and the other held aloft in a contorted Form he didn’t recognize.

“You fucking asshole,” Tommy said through gritted teeth. “You selfish, reckless, self-destructive asshole.”

“That… is a lot of adjectives,” Adam managed to mutter. He clamped a hand over his left forearm and squeezed. He groaned.

“You think this is a joke?” Tommy snapped. “You think you’re funny? Look at him!” He gathered the front of Adam’s shirt in his fist and heaved him off the ground.

Adam gasped, startled. His brother’s violence stunned him, as did the blue and green flashes warring in his eyes.

“Look!” Tommy said again, pointing to the side.

Adam looked. Ted was sitting on the floor, resting the back of his head against the leg of a desk. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even but blood was trickling from his nose.

“I—Ted—” Adam stammered.

The Inhuman’s eyes flickered open, blue eyes landing on Adam.

“I-I’m sorry.”

Ted’s lips drew into a half-smile and mouthed:

_Fuck you._

“And you!” Tommy raged on. He slammed Adam against the wall, forceful enough to conjure stars and the whiff of iron. “You were out for nearly an hour!”

He could hear Samantha, panting and still kneeling on the ground, her face hidden behind a cascade of brown hair. Beside her, on the floor, her Hand of Glory glowed a menacing ultraviolet as it twitched and hopped. She looked up to meet his eyes, as though sensing his gaze, and glared.

“Psychological magic,” she muttered in between huffs of breath. “Of all the stupid things…”

“I figured it out.” Adam gritted his teeth and stood his ground. “They’re after—”

“I don’t care!” Tommy all but screamed at him. “Do you know how important you are?”

And Adam, shocked and ashamed, could only stare back in silence.

“To magic? To Genosha?” Tommy pressed his eyes shut and bellowed heartbreaking howl. He slammed Adam against the wall one more time, harder this time, hard enough to knock the wind out his lungs. “To _me_?!”

A moment passed. Tommy’s face, glittering in the light, crumpled miserably as his eyes resettled to a deep, resolute blue. Then, his face became smooth and blank, unreadable as it first was in that wretched cave in Cape Hope. With a soft, bitter chuckle and a shake of his head, he released his hold on Adam and let him drop to the floor.

Adam stayed there for a long minute, catching his breath as he watched his hands. When he looked up, Tommy was already gone.

“It’s Ruixian,” he said, addressing both Ted and Samantha. “They were looking for Ruixian.”

Samantha held her glare for a moment longer, rose to her feet, and vanished in a swirl of cloth.

 

Tommy didn’t come back. Neither did Samantha nor any of the Seven for that matter—at least not that he could tell. He stayed with Ted for the rest of the day, apologizing profusely and then, after the irate Inhuman had banished him from the controls, sitting quietly in a stool on a corner as the team continued their work decrypting the electric fields. They ignored him for the most part and no one stopped him when he grabbed a box of crackers and left.

When he emerged through the crack in the cave, he found himself standing just outside the edge of a thick forest. The laboratory had been carved into the side of a mountain, part of a range that shielded Carrion Cove’s eastern border. His first instinct was to trek the long way round to see the ruined city but he didn’t know how far it was so he forced himself to turn his back and walk east instead, through the intervening forest and in the direction of Hammer Bay.

Night had already fallen and what few stars came out that night were a poor source of light for his eyes. He stared at the canopy beyond the edge of the forest, thick and impenetrable to light. The darkness underneath was absolute. With a simple spell, he summoned an orb of light and, swallowing back the burgeoning fear in his chest, stepped into the dark.

Even as a mage and knowing that he was stronger than the sort of things that lurked in the shadows, there was still something terrifying about a forest at night. It was the primordial sort of fear, profound and inimitable, the kind of fear etched in the collective racial memory of humanity that refused to disappear even in the light of logic. He imagined ghosts behind every tree, raving lunatics hiding in the shrubs, and white-faced children looking up from puddles of water. He knew it was absurd and he was sure that in their zealous mission to protect him the Seven still watched over him from the shadows—but still, the fear clung to his chest like mud on his boots.

The ground sank and squelched under his feet, tree trunks crowded around him, and the air was a thick, humid blanket that smelled of great rot. He walked on, blind but for a few precious feet of light as he carefully negotiated the exposed roots and slippery piles of leaves. He clambered over fallen logs, slid a couple of times down a muddy run-off, and fought the increasingly steep gradient of the ground.

He must have been walking for hours (in the general direction of what he _hoped_ was east) when the moaning, crackling sound breached the silence. He lifted the orb overhead, twisted his hand, and threw the reach of his light a few yards around him. The moaning turned to a shriek and he was overcome with a surge of renewed fear, turning limbs to stone as he broke out in a cold sweat.

He waited, breath arrested, and glanced about slowly without daring to even turn his head. The shrieking persisted but didn’t draw closer. He stayed still for a few minutes, waiting, waiting, waiting for the mutate to emerge from the dark.

Only it didn’t. It wailed and moaned and thrashed wherever it was but it kept its distance. Adam crept forward, following the source of the sound, and found it a few yards off behind a large boulder, half-crushed under a tree that had fallen on its legs. Half its face had been burned off and scattered around it were the charred remains of other mutates.

“You’re stuck,” Adam said dumbly.

To that, the mutate responded with another shriek.

Adam looked at its face, really studied it for the first time. There were the veins, black and split, and the bared teeth. But it was the eyes that got him… seething with such intimate hatred as they glared unblinkingly at him.

He began the spell.

Allstaff’s Hyperbaric Thermogenesis… _snap-snap-snap…_ six planes to localize the target… _snap-snap-snap…_ inundate the space with oxygen… _snap-snap-snap…_ unilateral heat transfer…

_Snap-snap—_

And then, just as he was about to cast the spark, the mutate’s face shifted in the dim light. For a moment, its eyes turned blue and its hair shone gold, glowing in the darkness like a spirit's haunting. Its lips mouthed a word… a name… an old name… one that Adam had ripped away from this world.

Adam froze and stared unblinkingly at the beatific face of Teddy Altman. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them, and looked again at the mutate's face, now restored to its previous state of corruption.

The apparition must have moved something in him; before he knew what he was doing, he was already halfway through the long work of dismantling the spell. He released the heat, allowed the oxygen to diffuse out, but kept the defining planes. He re-appropriated it as the spatial parameters for another spell—Faraday’s Seclusion—and watched as the man’s face unclenched and intelligence returned to his eyes.

Adam walked over and sat beside him in the damp.

“Easy,” Adam said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. He had tired to turn his head and hissed when the attempt put pressure on his legs. “You’re hurt.”

The man barked out a bitter laugh. “No shit, hero.”

Adam bristled and pulled away, as though he’d touched something burning. The word still stung, even now, and summoned a horde of memories. He managed to steel himself just as the hands and faces began to take form and crowd in his head, and as he shook his head—as though he could simply shake them off as well—he flicked a hand and shifted the summoned light above them, illuminating the space with dull silvery light.

“Thank you,” the man said. “Thank you for saving me.”

Adam let his face go slack. “I'm not sure I did.”

The man laughed again, a deep and throaty laugh, and tapped the log with his hand, wincing as he did so. “Yeah, maybe not.”

Adam studied the ground around them. There was so much blood, caked on the leaves, turning the soil to mud. He could feel it soaking his pants.

"Do you want a biscuit?" he asked.

"Not really."

“How long have you been here?”

“Two days, I think.”

He whistled, surprised the man was still alive.

“Minor regenerative powers,” the man explained when he saw Adam’s eyebrows pull together in consternation.

Adam nodded. “You’ll be okay,” he lied. “I’ll call in some guys. Get you out. With your powers, you should survive.”

The man gave him a little half-smile and turned away—a boy, really, who couldn't have been older than twenty. He reminded Adam of Nate.

"I mean... probably."

“It's nice to meet you, by the way.”

Adam nodded, leaned back against the log, and let his head loll back. “You were at that party. I remember.”

The boy smiled. “The Night Market. Yeah. We got shit-faced. I think I saw you too.”

Adam quirked an eyebrow. “I was wearing a different face.”

“I can tell when people lie. It's like an itch. Makes me uneasy.”

Adam smiled and turned to look at him.

“So what do you see when you look at me?” he asked.

The boy stirred and stared at Adam, the leaves crackling under him as he turned to get a better look.

“What’s _my_ truth?” Adam pressed.

The boy sniffed and closed his eyes again. “There is no truth. You are a lie.”

Adam looked up and stared at the canopy overhead, half-blinding himself with the floating orb of light.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess I am.”

Something moved somewhere in distance. A scuffling, rustling sound of leaves and twigs, followed by the scampering of prey that had been caught. Adam sat up and, still as a statue, waited for an ambush.

“Do you remember anything?” he asked when the forest fell quiet again and whatever it was that lurked in the dark decided to remain there and get on with more lurking. “What was it like?”

“Awful,” the boy said, face turning sour. “It was like… I could suddenly hear everyone’s thoughts and feel what everyone’s feeling. So many voices, so many emotions… It was just so noisy... like my head was going to burst. It was so…” He drifted off.

“Overwhelming?” Adam offered.

“Yeah. And there was something under all that. Like… It felt like.. _._ ”

Adam remembered the look in the mutate's eyes. “Hatred?”

The boy shook his head—what little he could shake it anyway. “No. It wasn’t hatred… It was… anger. Just pure, colossal anger at nothing in particular. It was just so much and so frustrating because you don't know what you're angry at and why.”  He paused, sucked in his lip, and bit. “It was so intense. But also… so pure. Like in all that jumble and confusion, it was the only thing that I could hold on to. At some point, it just took over the mess of voices and feelings and then… I just gave in.”

“You were on your way somewhere. Where were you going?”

“I was… supposed to meet someone. Supposed to pass them something.”

Adam shifted in his seat and looked down at the dying boy.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s in my pocket.”

The boy was trapped from the waist down. Adam could blast the log off but he didn’t think he would survive it.

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I?” The boy asked, his breath hitching.

Adam nodded, kept his face serene. “I think so,” he said.

For a moment, there was quiet. “Please don’t leave me."

“Do you wanna hear a story?” Adam asked. He stretched his legs in front of him and began massaging his left thigh. The cold and the wet were starting to get to him and he could already feel an episode coming.

“I don’t like stories,” the boy replied, lips turning down. “Never could enjoy them, even when I was a kid. They're all made-up and I know they’re just lies. They make me wanna scratch my face off."

“Well, this one is real. It happened.”

The boy was quiet for a moment as he wrestled with the notion.

“Okay," he finally decided. "Go on. What’s it about?”

“Well, funny enough it’s a story _about_ lies. It’s a real story about made-up people.”

“It’s not gonna work if they’re not real, man.”

“Oh, they’re all real. Even the made-up ones.”

“How’s that—“

“Quiet now and just let me tell the story.”

“Fine.”

Adam cleared his throat and closed his eyes. He let the words wash over him, carrying him up and up and up… breaking through the canopy and up into the sky and the glittering darkness beyond, where he thought he might break himself apart and scatter himself among the pretty lights.

“Once, there was a boy who fell in love with a dream…”

 

_Despite its exterior dimensions, the tower was surprisingly narrow. It composed mainly of a spiral staircase running along its curving wall and a central column where doors might appear intermittently as he made his way up._

_Unlike the world outside, the tower brimmed with life. Vines crept up the surface, wrapping around the stone and insinuating into cracks, and flowers of different colors bloomed from within the crevices—roses, daisies, sunflowers, peonies, and a plethora of other flourishing things that he couldn’t name. After the gray bleakness of the city outside, the sudden burst of colors was almost blinding in their cornucopia._

_The first door he opened led to a jungle, teeming with vegetation and the ripe smell of rot and life. He could hear the scuttle and scuffle of animals inside and the trickle of some body of water in the distance._

_He closed the door and climbed on. There was something discombobulating about a spiral staircase... the monotony and repetition that enforces the paradoxical sense of infinity and claustrophobia in a fractal structure, that the stairs could go on forever and yet with same sneaking suspicion that one were trapped in a spatial loop._

_A while later and a second door appeared—this one made of a strange rubbery material—and the moment his fingers grazed handle, it flung itself open and he was assaulted by a blast of stinging hot air. Particles of sand scraped his skin and even as he struggled to shut the door, he could see the towers of black rock, sharp cliffs, and soaring arches made of volcanic stone. The lava bathed everything in a red glow and it took all his strength to shut the door._

_He climbed on and as he ascended the tower, the worlds inside the rooms grew stranger and stranger still. There was one that was just a sand bar, stretching forward infinitely, riding crystal blue waters on both sides as a white sun beat down in an eternal summer. There were deserts, arctic wastelands, savannahs, swamps, and what he was sure was Victorian London cloaked in fog. Most were oddities, entire cities sculpted out of glass, swamps with pink mud overrun with alien-looking vegetation, and a plantation of knee-high tentacle shrubs undulating quietly in an absent wind. Yet some rooms, still, were filled with nothing but the elements: infernos, the impenetrable dark depths of the ocean floor, and even one that was simply a black void._

_But every now and then, there was a familiar glimmering—cities and towns and villages and even space stations, which, though holding no personal connection to him, were at least familiar enough in the general sense that a shipwrecked man might find the sight of another human being familiar. And in those rooms, he saw not just humans but other civilized life forms too like the Chitauri and Skrull and Kree and a million other intelligent species that he didn’t know what to call. They ignored him for the most part—or maybe they simply couldn’t hear him—but every now and then, someone would look over to where he was standing, frown, rub their eyes, and then walk away. And he would call out after them, trying to get their attention, but he was never daring enough to step through the door and follow. Whatever enchantment or technology it was that kept these microcosms from tearing apart the tower, he didn’t think it wise to test its limits. Perhaps it was an ark or a sanctuary, designed to safeguard these places from the collapse and ruin that had befallen the rest of the universe._

_So he simply climbed on, running his fingers along the wall-grown flowers and throwing open doors to glimpse the worlds inside. The climb went on interminably… circling in a spiral of stairs and doors and strange dreamscapes… stone stairs, strange doors, stranger worlds…_

_And then, there was that door. A pair of doors, actually. Made of metal and without a knob. Instead, it had sloping horizontal panels on both sides, set about a quarter of the way down like a small window for peeking. But that was not what made him stop in his tracks and furrow his eyebrows; it was that he recognized it. The memory struggled to surface and something was keeping it down, something that told him he shouldn’t peer further into the depths._

_It’s a cabinet door, he decided, as he stood on his toes and pressed his face against the grills, trying to spy what lay behind. He couldn’t see much and the angle only allowed him the ceiling anyway. But even outside, the antiseptic veneer of alcohol and iodine stung his nose. His hands went for the door, hovered for a moment, and pushed._

_The clean room’s yellow light doused him and stabbed his eyes._

_As he gave himself time to adjust, he listened to the soft clink of steel instruments, the rustle of plastic, and the chorus of machines beeping. He opened his eyes, turned his gaze forward, and his whole body went cold._

_In front of him stood four men dressed in overalls. They had their backs turned to him but he knew what they were doing. He recognized the smell, the plastic boxes that they were working on, and the wet clumps of flesh and organs that they removed and placed in ice boxes._

_And then there was that eye, that bright blue eye in a jawless face, staring right at him—like a sapphire winking from a jewellery box._

_He stared at it, remembering now, and waited, waited, waited, until finally, the memory completed itself._

_The eye blinked._

_And he turned away and ran._

“So Adam ran,” the boy said weakly. His voice had been growing weaker and weaker in the past hour until it was so faint that Adam had to lean in just to catch the words.

“He’s still running, I think.”

A sullen silence fell over them and for a long minute, Adam thought the boy had died. He was about to lift the log when the boy spoke again.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he said.

“Usually am, apparently. You gotta be more specific.”

The boy chuckled. “About Adam Thorne.”

“Oh?”

“You might have been made up but you’re real.”

Adam plucked a blade of grass from the ground and rolled it between his fingers.

“And so’s the other one. The one the other you dreamed about. The boy who never lived. You’re both real.”

Adam looked to the ground, stared at the mud and the grass and pebbles. “Thank you for saying that.” He picked up a what looked like the abandoned shell of a snail and tilted it towards the light. “What should I do?” he asked, as though he might find the answer cached in its deep spiral. “Maybe I can become him again but it would be like killing myself. Adam Thorne has to die so the other can come back.”

“You know what to do,” the boy said, so quietly that the words were barely more than a whisper. “You have to break the spell. You just wanted someone to make the decision for you. So since I’m dying anyway, I’ll be the one to tell you to do it. Break the spell and cast off Adam Thorne.”

Adam smiled. “I don’t even know if I can break it anymore,” he said. “I’ve been Adam Thorne for so long, this might just be all that’s left now.”

“Just say the truth,” the boy said. “There’s great power in words, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you… could you make it a little brighter? I can’t see anything anymore.”

Adam looked at the orb floating above them. He had been gradually turning it up and he didn’t think he could push it further. So instead, he made a series of Forms and touched the boy’s temple, flooding his mind with the impression of light, instead.

The boy smiled and began to cry. “I’m scared,” he murmured. “I don’t want to die.”

“I’m sorry.”

The boy nodded. “I have a sister down in the city. Find her. Tell her her brother loved her very much and that he should have listened to her and stayed home that night. Tell her… tell her I’m proud of her a-and I’ll be watching over her.”

“I promise.”

“It’s Mantle. My name is Theodore Mantle.”

Adam turned to Theodore Mantle’s face again and stared. For a moment, it shifted again, turning gold and blue for just a moment.

"What is it?" he found himself saying. His voice rose as he climbed to his feet. "What are you trying to tell me? What are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

Theo's body lay still at his feet.

“No,” Adam said firmly. “No, not this time. Not this one.”

With a flick of his hand, he blasted the log in an explosion of smoke and debris. He knelt beside Theo’s legs, crushed and mangled and bent at all the wrong places, and sent waves of electricity through the dead limbs.

“Too much,” he told himself, as he decreased the voltage as low as he could. “What would you do, Ray? What would you do?”

He didn’t bother with gentleness. He grabbed the legs and rearranged them. Theo grunted and groaned, too weak—or maybe unconscious now—to protest, as Adam straightened the parts that should be straight, pushed back the bones that had snapped and pierced the skin, and then sent another jolt electricity up.

“Come on,” he murmured, as he cauterized the open wounds. “Come through, dammit!”

The air had begun to take on a blue-pink glow, as the lightning charged molecules and turned oxygen to ozone.

 _Still too much!_ He thought to himself, as he dropped the voltage again. He had no idea what he was doing but he knew it was better than nothing. With a flick of his hand, he extended his metal cane. He jammed the tip at the base of the boy's skull and focused there. He listened to the cells, to the way the currents leaped across synapses from nerve to nerve—or at least tried to, anyway. They responded in whispers and mutterings, far too soft for his electrokinesis to make sense of. 

“I’m gonna save this one,” Adam promised himself as Theo spasmed and jolted as his body rode the waves of his powers. “I have to. I can’t—I can’t lose this one. I… I can’t keep losing!”

He doubled down on his work. Theo’s hair stood on end, slightly singed with static, and his chest arched up. “Come on! Start healing!” Adam shouted at him. “Save yourself! Regenerate!”

He had never envied Ruixian her powers as much as he did in that moment. He thought he might trade it all away—the magic and the lightning both—for just a moment to have a drop of her gift to save this boy he barely knew, and all because, through some improbably trick of irony, the universe was mocking him again with the image of his own blasphemy.

"Please," he whispered to himself. His shoulders shook with frustration as tears welled in his eyes. "Please, don't die. Please."

He didn't know what made him do it or where the thought had even come from. "Please," he said. He closed his eyes, reached deep into himself, and took a shaking breath. "Save this one, Billy."

 

He thought reality broke. Fractured into a million pieces like glass shattering.

Only it wasn't reality that broke. It was Adam Thorne. Torn apart in a million directions and just as quickly stitched together again into something same but different.

Adam felt his lips pull to a smile, felt his eyes burn a brilliant blue as the oldest of magicks burst forth from his marrow and crawled all over his skin. His hand reached forward of its own accord and laid itself over Theo's chest.

His lips parted and power poured out of his mouth in a voice that was his but wasn't.

" **I want you to live.** "

 

Adam and Theo gasped at the same time—Adam as the other one retreated and Theo as his chest arched up in a grotesque curve. A faint blue glow enveloped Theo as life forcefully crammed itself back into his body.

Adam leaped to his feet and, despite the pain now exploding in his leg, placed his ear against Theodore Mantle’s chest, listening to the faint flutter of a heartbeat and thinking that it was the most wonderful sound in the universe.

He laughed and sobbed at the same time, weeping tears of victory even as agony exploded through his leg and forced him to the ground. 

 

They made their way slowly, laughing and grunting and sobbing in turns, with only makeshift bundles of sticks and each other for support. It had taken the rest of that first morning before they were both well enough to walk—well, limp, really—and then another day and a half to finally reach the outskirts of the city. They subsisted on Adam's stolen box of biscuits and the overripe fruits they scavenged from the forest floor and they drank from the scant rivulets of water. By the time they’d passed under the abandoned toll booths, their clothes were in tatters and their piss had turned brown. Exhausted, famished, and delirious, they stumbled their way to the Mantle household, a small bungalow in Flexner which, aside from the trampled lawn and scorched walls, had been mostly spared by the mutate attack.

Jackie Mantle was a lanky teenager, who greeted them with a shriek, a tearful embrace, and more shrieking. She recognized Adam, of course, and while she felt the compulsion to bow, she had courtesy enough not to call him prince or Sorcerer Supreme or, most importantly, hero. He liked her, he decided immediately, and before he left, he promised that he would visit again once things simmered down in the castle.

And so he went the rest of the way alone (though, he held no illusions that the Seven had truly left him alone; every now and then he would look over his shoulder or up in the sky, and try to find the shadow or shimmer of a tail), with nothing but the crutch that Jackie had salvaged from the attic, a hooded jacket that he kept up to hide his face and to ward off the rain, and the trinket that Theo had been tasked to spirit away, now folded safely in a handkerchief and tucked securely in his pants.

There were other stragglers like him, journeying inwards under the pouring rain, through the soot-stained buildings and burned-down houses, and as he inched his way towards the palace, the traffic of human bodies began to thicken until it was a veritable crowd, complete with the cacophony and smells of a Sunday wet market.

In the wake of the mutate attack, many of Hammer Bay's denizens have become permanent fixtures to the pavement, sitting up or sprawled listlessly on the wet concrete. Some stared but many were simply huddled up to themselves, twitching and muttering as their eyes shifted around them. They shied away from people, sometimes with whimper or a shriek if they didn't move fast enough.

 _Is there a spell?_ Adam thought as he watched a filthy woman on the floor lift her skirt to hide her face.  _Is there a spell to fix this?_  

Teddy would have known...

He walked on and shouldered his way into the crowd. And in those who didn't break was a  _hardness_ too, a sharpness that underscored the fact that though something vital had been rearranged in them, there was also that understanding and grim acceptance that life must go on.

And these ones that had the strength to stay standing... they worked on resettling the bricks, cleaning out the debris from the ruined buildings, and mending the broken roads and walls of the broken city. Gone were the mounds of corpses, the pyres of fallen mutates, the black rivers of sewage and blood. Instead, there were people. Workers. Around Adam rang out the sound of hammers and voices and electric saws and, once in a while if he listened very carefully, under the air thick with grief, the sound of children. The sound of laughter, of joy that had somehow managed to survive amidst the carnage. The sound of a promise that the world could and would carry on no matter how much they lost, if not through the survivors then at least through their children... the heirs to their dreams and happiness.

Adam didn't dare look. Through it all, he kept his eyes down, avoided all eye contact, and pushed all thoughts of the pressing crowd out of his mind. He let the sounds and the smells wash over him but kept his gaze fixed on his boots, focused on how they place themselves one after another, kicking up puddles.

 _They’re just people… They’re just people…_ he told himself in a steady mantra. _They’re not mutates._

He walked on.

In Magda Square, the Genoshans had constructed something of a shrine: a sea of flowers and trinkets surrounding a twenty-foot tall feat of a structure, which resembled a cross between a pagoda and an altar. Atop that memorial—impossibly so, by all known laws of structural mechanics—was a wide stone basin, burning defiantly against the pouring rain. 

For a moment, Adam stopped and simply stared. _We’re alive_ , he thought, feeling his arms go limp at his sides. _We’re all alive._

He walked on... into the inner districts, where the banks and the temples and the old financial centers were being rebuilt. And floating above it all were the mages and the mystics, statuesque in their stillness as they turned their gaze to the castle. Robes and capes fluttered half-heartedly in the wind like the tattered, drooping flags of a tired army. Theirs had always been a separate race—not just from the common trunk of humanity but from the mutant and Inhuman and other gifted offshoots as well, and that separation had never been so apparent to Adam as in the mage's utter indifference to the affairs and suffering of men and women beneath their cloud-swept feet, never so succinctly expressed as in their pristine, monumental apathy as they hung in the sky, cold and distant as the stars themselves.

Even the ones who kept to the ground were all turned towards the castle, backs turned and away from the Genosha's plight behind them. They were silent too, sullen and serious, and for all this talk of a divine connection to the Supremacy, which binds all beings of magic, not a single one stirred in the presence of the Heir Supreme walking amidst them.

He was suddenly struck by how alone he truly was. Not just as a mage but as the supposed Genoshan heir too. The Genoshans had named him their prince—their hero, even—and yet he'd always felt that he didn't really belong with them, that he was still an outsider detached from their common struggle to build their own sanctuary. That truth had been nagging at him for a while now but he'd thought that if he tried... if he pretended... that it would simply impose itself unto reality: that he belonged in Genosha, alongside his friends, his brother, and grandfather.

But he could never be a part of that—of anything, really, not even with Ruixian's friendship or Sami's affection—because he was Adam Thorne and Adam Thorne wasn't real.

He was no one.

 

By the time he reached the castle gates, night had long fallen. The guards let him pass unchallenged and as he pushed himself across the foyer and up the grand staircase, he saw Tommy waiting for him under the vast open doors, leaning casually against a thick marble pillar.

“Welcome back,” he said in a guarded tone, sharp blue eyes flitting over Adam.

And Adam, a little heartbroken, saw that he had shaved his hair. It had been cropped close to the scalp so that Tommy no longer looked like him.

He ambled right up to his brother, stared into those strange blue eyes, and let his forehead fall against his shoulder.

Tommy stiffened and sucked in a breath.

“I saved someone today,” Adam muttered.

Tommy’s arms jerked beside him, unsure what to do, and then settled on giving Adam a couple of awkward pats on the back.

“I’m not the only one hurting,” Adam continued. “We have to keep moving forward. I’m sorry.”

He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, thinking there had been one too many apologies lately.

“Welcome back, little brother,” Tommy murmured into his hair. “Grandfather's coming home tomorrow.”

 

_He ran._

_He bounded up the stairs, huffing and panting and dripping with sweat. His heart was a wild thing in his chest, jackhammering against his ears in a relentless beating of fear._

_Doors flung themselves open as he passed, exclaiming his name as they did—his_ true _name! Some called out to him in plaintive tones, crying out for help and then shrieking with pure hate when he didn’t stop._

_The vines grew wilder as he ascended, thickening and blooming in a mad explosion of colors, and the cobblestones shifted slowly to clay… to sand… to loam… and then, finally, to grass._

_Still, he ran, even as the jungle grabbed at his limbs and tried to hold him back, until finally, he burst through an open door—more a trellis, actually, overhung with gentler deep-green vines and blue-gold blossoms._

_He cried out against the glare, against the sudden outpouring of light from a living sun that shone overhead and stabbed his eye._

_The wind stirred, sighing as it ran its fingers through the stalks... Heat seeped through his clothes and warmed his muscles and for a perfect moment, he felt safe..._

_Slowly, he removed his arms from his face and opened his eyes._

_And there... under an open, cloudless sky, in the middle of a rippling sea of gold, sat a king in his throne, dreaming._


	17. The Once Future King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to update this fic for a while but med school has been taking much of my time. Here's a short chapter, one i hope you guys would enjoy. It was meant to be longer but it's taking me much more time than I'd planned to complete. Hopefully, the next chapter would be up in the next couple of months.

“Hey,” a sleepy voice murmured, unexpected but not unwelcome. “Can’t sleep?”

Adam blinked, pulled back from whatever thought it was that had consumed him— _what was he thinking about just now? He can’t remember now_ —and turned away from the sky. “No, not really,” he said, idly running a hand along the frigid stone baluster.

An unobstructed view of the Genoshan night spread before him, an explosion of stars and nebulae that bloomed like flowers amidst a meadow of clouds. And beneath it all, as cold and distant as these very stars, were the mystics.

“Go back to bed, Sami,” he added, smiling as he watched and tried to listen to the robes fluttering in the wind. “Don’t mind me.”

Sami hmm-ed as he sidled next to Adam, leaning on the baluster with one arm. He placed his other hand on Adam’s arm and slowly turned him until they were face to face. “I’m good, right here,” he said, as he ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Little prince, what lonely thought swirls in your pretty head?”

“Shut up, you,” Adam snorted and gave Sami’s arm a playful punch, a Tommy-ism he had long ago absorbed.

Sami chuckled and for a moment, they shared an easy smile, comfortable if a little shy.

“Tell me about yourself,” Adam asked, once he’d felt the need to break the burgeoning silence. He was deflecting too, finding something of a distraction for himself… from that unshakeable feeling of being elsewhere… of being in two places at once.

“Me?” Sami said, raising an eyebrow. He looked a little surprised, though still smiling. He cocked his head to one side in a moment so vulnerable and genuine that Adam had never seen before. “Why?”

“I wanna learn more about you.”

“I’m not very interesting, I’m afraid. I’m just me… I’m just Sami.”

“No one is _just_ them,” Adam began, rummaging through his arsenal of small talk. “Let’s start with this: where are you from? Before all this… before the Sanctuaire.”

“Before the Sanctuaire,” Sami echoed in a murmur, looking contemplative and unsure. He turned away and his smile faltered. A cold wind blew and ruffled his hair, which he tried to fix again with his fingers. “I’m Saudi.”

“Ah! I was thinking Emirati,” Adam said. “But I guess it’s pretty close? A Saudi citizen, huh?”

Sami snorted. “No, not quite.”

Adam arched an eyebrow. “Wait. When you said… you don’t mean…”

Sami stared back at him blankly, betraying blankly.

“As in… Al Saud? Sami al Saud?”

“Yes… well, no. Sami’s not my given name.”

Adam hummed. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I had a feeling it wasn’t. Oh, wow, I didn’t know you are royalty. And yes, I’m aware of the irony here.”

“Papa’s been knocked down the line of succession, anyway,” Sami said, shrugging off the comment with practiced grace. “He isn’t exactly your ideal candidate for king.”

“I always knew there was a rebel in you somewhere, Sami,” Adam said.

Sami frowned and fell quiet for a moment. “I know you mean that as a compliment so… thank you.” He chewed on his lip and Adam got the sense that he’d messed up somewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I think I said something wrong.”

And at that, Sami shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “It’s just… I don’t know how I feel about being compared to him.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a long story, Adam.”

Adam shrugged and leaned an elbow on the balustrade. He rested his chin under his hand and began tapping a finger against the stone, as though to communicate patience.

Sami sighed and rolled his eyes. “Okay. Well, Papa eloped with a German girl. Blonde, blue eyes, the whole Aryan package. The family threw him out for a couple of years but once they realized that he wasn’t going to leave his wife for his throne, they let him come home.” Sami chuckled, but it was empty and faraway. “We were all right for a while… At least I think we were. The pictures seemed to suggest so.” He sighed again and bit his lip. “I was two, when the Terrigen mists came. It was a sandstorm for us, purple electric clouds rolling up from the desert. Mom and I both turned. Turns out she had the genes, who knew? It got pretty predictable after that. The family could forgive miscegenation but an Inhuman?” His face soured, twisting with mock outrage and scandal. “Mom and I were exiled but Papa loved her too much so he went away with us.” He paused, face turning soft, and fell into rumination.

“What happened after?”

Sami fixed his eyes on Adam and gave a sad smile. “Mom threw herself in front of a train. She couldn’t live with the disgrace of being Inhuman. The… _immorality_ of it. And then—” He turned away again and leaned with both forearms on the baluster. His eyes fell to his brown, slender hands, studying them as they flexed in the starlight—as though the story was written in the soft lines.

“I’m sorry, Sami,” Adam muttered. He wanted to put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, wanted so much to touch, to comfort. But it wasn’t like that. They weren’t like that. They couldn’t even if they’d wanted to. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Sami shrugged and smiled again. “Then, it was just Papa and me for a few years. We moved from city to city, a new country every year, always running from the family. He worked so hard to provide for us. He wouldn’t let me help, not even with the housework; in his eyes, I was still a prince. I remember there were nights he wouldn’t eat.”

“That sounds awful, Sami.”

“Why?” Another shrug. “ _I_ always had enough on my plate.”

The wind blew again, harder this time, cold and wet as any spell. Sami unfolded the comforter that he’d brought with him and draped it over both of them. They shivered and huddled in shared heat.

“I still remember the last time we talked,” Sami continued. “I was fourteen. There was a boy who lived just a couple of storeys down our apartment. Papa caught us in the stairwell and… and…” He took a deep breath and shook his head. His face crumpled into something hurt and ashamed. “He went ballistic. A-and the words that fell from his lips… I never could have imagined my sweet father saying such things. He’d almost hit me too, if William hadn’t placed himself between us. Everything else after that was really dramatic. William and I ran off that night. I came home a few days later to find that our place had been ransacked. Blood everywhere. They’d taken everything that belonged to me or Mom. I-it was like they didn’t want anything connecting us to them. No evidence that we ever existed at all. And Papa… he was just gone.”

He fell quiet again. He looked up to Adam and smiled.

“Don’t feel too sorry for me, though,” he continued. “I’m not an orphan. I mean… I thought I was… Took me years to work up the courage to ask Mr. Stark to help me find what had become of my father. Turns out, the family didn’t find us; Papa just went home on his own. I guess he couldn’t deal with having a-a…” He took a deep breath as he wrenched out the words. “A gay son.” He winced, as though the word stung him.

Adam drew closer to him. “I’m sorry, Sami,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”

Sami shrugged again. “Such is life,” he said, with his Sami smile that never reached the eyes.

 _Such is life._ The words echoed in Adam’s head, conjuring the memory of other words: _it is what it is_.

“So I guess that’s the story of Sami al Saud. Well, Dieter al Saud, actually—it’s the Germanized equivalent of Theo—”

“I know,” Adam cut in, careful not to be too sharp. And then, a little more softly, he added, “I know.”

“But I prefer Sami. It’s the name I gave myself. It’s the name that’s all _mine_. It was never theirs _._ ”

“Yeah.” Adam nodded. “Those names are the most important ones.”

A laugh. A real one. And Sami’s grin was a brilliant thing in the dark. “Oh, is that right, Adam Thorne?”

Adam grinned back gamely. “Damn right.”

“And how about you? How long have you been Adam Thorne?”

It was Adam’s turn to sigh and look away. “I don’t know… eight years? Shit. Almost nine, now I guess…” He laughed again, an amused, hollow laugh. “Fuck. Has it been so long?”

“Why did you do it?” Sami asked softly, drifted closer so that they were touching now, close enough that Adam could smell the scent of clean sweat and the mint in his breath.

“The Avengers wanted me dead,” Adam stated simply. “They thought I’d go insane like the Scarlet Witch. Guess I proved them wrong, huh?” He glanced up at Sami and gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, you probably don’t wanna hear about all that. Tony Stark being like your personal hero and all.”

For a moment, Sami said nothing, but Adam could see the thoughts churning behind his eyes.

“He was,” he admitted, finally. “But I know he wasn’t perfect. I know he made mistakes.” He paused for a moment, considering his words. “But you know… all he ever wanted was to do good. Protect the world.”

“I was seventeen when they decided to—” Adam sighed and closed his eyes. He shook his head, not wanting to spoil the night with a fight. “I’m just so tired, Sami,” he said. “After I became Adam Thorne, I fled. I’ve been _running_ … for such a long time. It was such a mad dash that when I finally caught my breath, eight years had passed. I thought I could keep doing this forever. Just... keep running. But now… I don’t think I can anymore. Not when… Not when…”

His eyes fell away towards the city, where the lights and the fires had already begun to burn again.

“You blame yourself because you’re alive and they’re dead,” Sami said, striking at the heart of it. “And it’s driving you mad that everyone keeps hovering over you like you’re something to be protected at the cost of everything else.” He cast his eyes at the sky, towards the thick knot of clouds that hid Neha in its folds. “And you hate that they’re still looking over you even now.”

Adam arched an eyebrow. “Uncanny,” he quipped, uncomfortable now of where the conversation had taken them. “I wasn’t aware you had such keen powers of observation.”

Sami stared at him, considering. Adam could tell he was about to say something important but instead—and Adam was very thankful for this—he rolled his eyes and made a most un-Sami-like sound at the back of his throat. “I am a Gate Keeper of Stark’s Sanctuaire, sir,” he said with just the right mixture of irony and aplomb. “Perspicacity is my business.” He leaned towards Adam and bumped their shoulders together. His eyes softened and his lips curved in that beatific smile of his.

Adam froze for a moment. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the way Sami was looking at him.

_Oh, boy._

“You know what this is, right, Sami?” he asked softly, already feeling like a little bit of an asshole as he drew away from the other man.

“Hmmm?”

“This can’t be anything serious. We can’t have that.”

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”

“I’m serious, Sami. I’m not real. And I’m not gonna be here for long. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Sami took a step back and stiffened. The comforter fell from their shoulders and the cold wind hit Adam like a punch to the gut.

“What do you mean you’re not gonna be here for long?” Sami asked, voice high and urgent.

“I usurped the Supremacy from Strange, Sami,” Adam said wearily as he snatched back up the comforter from the ground.

“I know that.”

“But I didn’t take it as Adam Thorne. I was someone else. And only _he_ can Ascend to the Supremacy.”

Sami stared at him, eyes hard and unblinking, almost like a challenge.

“I’m not real, Sami,” Adam said again. Then, growing tired of the conversation, he smiled and put on a voice of levity. He could already feel himself drifting away. “You’d like the other one better anyway.”

Sami turned away from him and dropped his gaze at the city. “I think I like this version of you just well,” he said quietly.

Adam stared, unable to give word to the storm of emotions in his chest. They fell silent and the night passed with nothing between them but a shared warmth. The wind blew, the moon plotted its path across the sky, and the mystics floated, still as statues.

Adam watched them sleepily, secure in the knowledge that his spells obscured the balcony from prying eyes.

The mystics were a problem. They had come for him, he was sure, but he didn’t know if he could give them what they wanted. What was it? A new regime? A new world?

And yet, he also knew that they wouldn’t wait too long. The mystics were a force he couldn’t ignore but they were also adrift. And for the first time in millennia, they had come together, _wanting_ to be ruled. And if Adam wouldn’t take the crown, more proverbial and metaphorical though it was than other crowns, he was sure someone would rise up to take it in his stead. Someone who might lead their community through this new age of a broken Seven. Or someone who might plunge them back into darkness.

The choice was his to make—but not forever. If he waited too long, someone one would make it for him.

But how? How would he do it? Should he carve them a piece of this city to make their new home? How was he to become both Sorcerer Supreme and Lord of Genosha?

Or perhaps found them a new home, a separate home? Something hidden like Atlantis or maybe out in the open like Wakanda or Latveria?

The questions crowded around him, nagging, whispering. He closed his eyes and tried to think and when he opened them, minutes, maybe hours later, he found himself alone. He hadn’t even noticed that Sami had left. Nor that dawn had broken and the sky had turned pink.

Quietly, he padded back to the room and slipped under the covers. He tried to sleep. Failing that, he sat up against the soft headboard and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. He picked up Tommy’s notebook from a side drawer and flipped through the sketches, deciding that his brain was too tired to handle the mathematics of spellwork.

Sami stirred and pressed against him, nuzzling his face against his hip. He made an appreciative half-waking sound as Adam ran his fingers through his hair.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured sleepily. “Come back to me, _habibi_.”

Adam’s fingers froze in the other man’s hair.

“Dammit, Sami,” he muttered softly as he withdrew his hand.

He didn’t want this. That much he was sure of.

He wasn’t in love.

He didn’t want to be with Sami.

He didn’t want… whatever _this_ was.

But perhaps… and this thought scared him the most… perhaps, he wanted _to want_ it _._ Perhaps he wanted to feel what it was to love something that wasn’t out of reach. He wanted to love.

 _Perhaps, in another life… in another story, in another world,_ he mused _. One where our meeting didn’t lead to the destruction of your home. One where you didn’t grow up thinking a man can’t love another man._

He stared at the beautiful man, fast asleep against him, and imagined the happiness that they might have shared. A life together with a person who loved him and whom he loved in return. _One where we’d met before I became Adam Thorne,_ he thought, as he tried to conjure that scintilla of affection. An approximation of whatever love was supposed to feel like in his own chest.

 _I wish I did love you,_ he thought privately, making sure not to say it out loud or even to want it too fiercely. Fixing each other wasn’t love. He was Adam Thorne and Adam Thorne had no heart with which to love. Whatever was left of it, he presumed, belonged to someone else… somewhere else, somewhere with golden fields and a big open sky.

Slowly, so as not to wake Sami, he crawled out of the bed and made his way to the bathroom. And when the door had closed behind him, he slid to the floor, wrapped his arms around his legs, and buried his face in his knees.

He’d fucked up.

_Dammit..._

And he was gonna end up hurting someone all over again.

_Dammit. Dammit. Dammit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Magneto returns and war finds Genosha again. The final arc of Once Upon a Dream begins to close.


End file.
